


Strange Love and Espionage

by TheCrackedKatana



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), star wars AU - Fandom
Genre: Courtly Bullshit, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, I wouldn't drink that if I were you, M/M, Musical Nonsense, NOT Kylo Amidala, Scandalous Fuckery, Senator Kylo Ren, Slow Burn, Sniper Hux, fancy clothes, senator au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6907612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrackedKatana/pseuds/TheCrackedKatana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Hux is sent to negotiate the terms of an "arrangement" between the First Order and the citizens of a lesser known planetary system.  However, one planet's political representative is far more savvy than Hux anticipated.  This elegant, dangerous vigilante of a man who has the nerve to call himself "Senator" is not the awkward youth General Hux remembers.  12 years have passed since an encounter involving alcohol and confessions that were not reciprocated.  Now, Hux finds himself on the receiving end of a problem he isn't sure any amount of military training can solve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1-17-18: Please note that I probably will not finish this fic. My interests have shifted and I have branched off into new things. Thank you for reading!
> 
> This started out as a short fic entitled "Liaisons," but suddenly, a wild novel of crack appeared! This is my own personal interpretation of Senator Kylo Ren, an elegant, intelligent, and deadly man who carries himself with confidence. Kylo Amidala/Naboo are not involved. This is an entirely different concept that tickled my fancy so hard, I just had to write it. General Hux has a BIG problem on his hands with this one. Scheduled updates are every 7-10 days, life permitting.

"You have your orders. I expect swift and complete compliance."

General Hux presents an unflinching stare to figure on the screen before him, a cool, almost dispassionate stance that is both practiced and in this particular moment, accurate.

"Yes, sir."

"The senator is young, but do not let his age deceive you. He is a shrewd, intelligent man, a political vigilante who is not above taking matters into his own hands, if the moment suits him. Be wary of how you present our agenda, General."

One gloved hand fists behind his back with a subtle creak of leather. As if he knows nothing of this man's past, of where he came from and who might have educated him. As if he himself is uneducated in the protocol for such things. 

_Honestly._

"I understand, sir."

"Report back to me after the evening's events. I expect that you will have news."

"Of course, sir." 

The screen grows abruptly dark and the general releases a breath he didn't realize still tightened his chest. Kylo kriffing Ren. _Senator_ Kylo Ren. How in the galaxy had such an atrocity befallen this planet?

Hux recalls the gangly, unwieldy wisp of a youth, his face a near comical configuration of overly prominent features, long limbs dangling as if uncertain of how to present a proper posture, hands and feet too large to be practical. Most grew into themselves as they aged, filling out their bodies, their features arranging themselves into some semblance of normalcy, but not Ren. By the age of sixteen, Hux had been more than convinced that the best the boy could ever manage was an off-putting rendition of "charmingly awkward."

Not to mention, Ren's soft-hearted mannerisms, his laughable level of compassion and utter lack of social grace only served to add to the mess of his countenance. Just how General Organa had managed to navigate the murky waters of child-rearing with this one was beyond him, especially considering his thieving scoundrel of a father.

The Commandant, by contrast, had been a ruthless force in young Hux's life, perhaps more of the perpetual commanding officer than a parent. Discipline, structure, and order were his primary teaching mechanisms. Obedience was his expectation. Given young Hux's fast-paced ascension to the highest rank within the First Order by the age of thirty-three, the man has trained him well.

He glances at the now-dark screen. Well, not quite the highest rank. His father is still unwilling to relinquish some things.

"General, your shuttle is ready for departure."

Hux executes a sharp turn to face the lieutenant, who stands at attention in the doorway. The man's uniform is pristine, sharp and crisp, without wrinkle or crease. His boots are polished to high shine, his hair combed to neat perfection. His posture is confident, hands at his sides, shoulders back, gaze steady. 

A well-trained officer, obeying without question, presenting only his best at all times. Yes, as it should be.

"Very good, then," Hux says. "I will be there momentarily."

"There is also a message for you, sir. From Senator Ren."

Hux manages a slow blink to hide his irritation. What in the blazes could the man want from him before they had so much as spoken in person? 

"Continue," he instructs.

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant's voice is a practiced neutrality that Hux himself admires, for he has trained it into the man himself. "The senator requests your attendance at a customary social function before negotiations are to begin. The event itself is formal in nature and will commence outside of the senator's estate. Senator Ren feels certain it will be to your liking."

Hux does little to repress the edges of a sneer that curve his mouth. A formal event. What an unexpected nuisance. And what would Ren know of his "liking?" How presumptuous. 

"Thank you, lieutenant," he says, his tone a dismissive cue for the other man to take his leave.

The lieutenant nods, executing the unspoken order with no hesitation. The faintest hint of a smile pulls at Hux's lips. His men are attuned to his every whim, adaptive and disciplined, obeying without question. Only the finest candidates are allowed to continue past academy status. Only the most proficient, intelligent, and loyal of beings participate in his rigorous continued training to become First Order officers, chosen by Hux himself.

Validation of his methods is neither expected nor required. The general is confident in his abilities, without fear or indecision. 

He walks through the corridors of the Finalizer, notes with pleasure how every officer makes efficient, practical use of their time, how each one is a productive counterpoint to the other. A team. A unit. An army.

Competency. Order. The knot of tension within his shoulders loosens as he strides towards the command center for a final assessment of those who will be left in charge, the quiet hum of machinery and progress a soothing static to his ears.

 

_______________________________

 

He pilots the shuttle himself, despite the polite protests of the appointed officer in charge of such things. If Ren is to greet him upon the docking bay, he wishes for nothing more than a perfect landing, a smooth and easy transition from flight to grounded state. The officer does not offer further insistence and acquiesces to Hux's whims. 

A wise decision. 

The sight of Ren's fast-approaching estate is modest compared to that of other political officials he has encountered, facing the tall climb of the city's architecture in one direction, but with a view of the rolling countryside from behind. Modern and natural. Dualistic. Much like the reputation of the man in question, a reputation that Hux feels must certainly be built upon exaggeration.

The mysterious disappearance of drug lords and gang members has been linked to the senator, as has the "retirement" of certain political officials. While the man claims neutrality on many issues, the internal corruption of galactic politics is not one of them. Ren's dossier is an abundance of such encounters, most of which Hux has not bothered to read. The written word will not tell him what he needs to know about how this man, what is agenda might be, or what he may or may not be doing as a result of it. A few missing persons are the least of his concerns, not to mention the particulars of just how they have gone missing.

Turning his thoughts away from Ren's alleged "accomplishments," the general lands the shuttle with ease and well within the lines of the appointed docking space before rising to his feet to procure the flowing cape that completes the look of his dress whites. He seldom wears the uniform, for white has an irritating habit of picking up all manner of dirt and dust and rarely remains pristine. Still, the uniform itself is impressive, especially when coupled when the cape, and if the senator wishes for "formality," Hux is more than inclined to deliver it in spades.

Tugging his gloves into place, he tosses the cape over his shoulders and makes his way down the ramp, flanked by several officers in their best parade dress, blasters well within sight, should the mission become some manner of foil. 

A hooded figure surrounded by weapon-toting aides stands near the edge of the docking bay, waiting. Hidden from view. Typical Ren, always shrouded in some manner of draping fabric, as if doing so will cause him to take up less space in the universe somehow. Hux has not forgotten the boy's propensity to make himself "disappear." One would think that as a man, Ren would have outgrown such childish insecurities. 

As Hux clears the ramp, the figure sheds the voluminous robe, passing it off to the nearest aide, who drapes it neatly over his arm as if this is the expected protocol. 

Hux's militant march of a walk comes to such an abrupt halt that the officer behind him almost trips in an effort to avoid a body collision. 

_Great. Galactic. Empire._

This _cannot_ be him. Not this man that does not walk, but saunters towards him with a swish of dark fabric and a confident slinking of hips. Not this man whose hair has grown lush and thick, reaching nearly to his shoulders, camouflaging those absurd ears he remembers so well. 

It cannot be this man, whose posture and carriage are almost regal in their confidence, broad shoulders straight, head held high. 

"General Hux."

A cordial, almost sly smile. A blasted twinkle in those dark eyes. A gloved hand lifted in greeting.

The general wets suddenly dry lips before speaking. "Senator Ren."

He slides his fingers into the other man's grip, resisting the urge to stiffen when the senator's hand all but eclipses his own.

"It is good to see you," Ren says. He tilts his head to one side, a crooked smile curving one side of his mouth. "You haven't changed."

Hux fights the flush of color that threatens to pinken his fair skin. What in the galaxy is he to say to that? If Ren expects him to state the obvious, he is woefully mistaken.

"I see that you have done quite well for yourself," Hux observes blandly.

"Perhaps," Ren says. He falls into step beside the general, boots clicking with importance upon the concrete, fitted surcoat fluttering behind him. "I thought that perhaps you might care to enjoy a bit of the planet's culture before we commence to boring each other over political matters." Ren pauses, arches one eyebrow. "Do you enjoy the opera, General?"

 _Leather._ The man is wearing _leather_ pants, fitted to the sleek swell of his thighs as if it has been painted there, the high slits on either side of his coat trimmed in a muted pewter thread which frames the entire absurdity.

"I do at times," Hux says at last. 

"Well, then." Ren offers him an arm gloved in tight, fitted fabric. "Would you care to accompany me?"

Hux stares at the proffered arm for a moment before blinking as if snapping out of a trance. It is with slow, almost pained reluctance that slips his arm beneath it, hand resting atop Ren's wrist.

"If it pleases you," he says with an air of boredom.

Ren pulls his own arm a bit closer to his body, forcing their strides to sync.

"It pleases me very much," the senator says.

 

___________________________________________

 

The senator's box is a private one, nestled high above the stage and orchestra pit, the placement strategic for optimal richness of sound. The performers themselves are easily viewed from the various holographic platforms throughout the amphitheater, but it is the music that captivates the general more so than anything else. 

Despite the vibrant costumes and impeccable stage presence, Hux allows his eyes to flutter shut. Music siphons into his subconscious, a masterful auditory coloration of brightness interspersed with ominous dissonance. Such auditory complexity. Such resonance. A tingle arises in his fingers, a phantom itch that yearns for the practice of something no longer valid in his life. And yet, he recalls the finger work with startling clarity, the fingers of his left hand affecting the faintest twitch in tandem with the simple melodic structure of the violins in the orchestra pit below. In his youth, his mother had often favored him with opera and musical culture until the militant whims of his father saw to it that upcoming cadet focused on more "important" matters. It was only at night in the quiet solitude of his own quarters that Hux allowed himself the luxury of merely listening to music.

And not often.

A gloved hand lights upon his arm and Hux's eyes snap open.

"You enjoy the Caevelli, then?"

He flicks his gaze to the stage, but his eyes drift back towards the orchestra and linger. He thinks of the holos he has seen of the man's operas, the extensive collection of concertos and nocturnes in his own library. The projections of sheet music he does not dare to view.

"His work is familiar to me," Hux says.

"He has fashioned his own line of instruments, you realize." The senator nods to the orchestra pit. "I believe the violin is his specialty."

The corners of Hux's lips tighten just a touch. "Really."

Ren nods. "Fine craftsmanship. Of course, that is not in my personal realm of ability."

Hux says nothing, feigning interest in the cavorting soprano and her guileless tenor lover. Always the tenors, so it seems. No wonder the fair-haired general prefers the bass.

And just why this display of grandeur is necessary in the first place is beyond him. He is far more used to swift negotiations, clear objectives, and minimal discourse. This nonsense of wooing him via cultural extravagance is an unnecessary nuisance. A distraction. And perhaps, that is the very nature of Ren's foolery.

The senator, however, has ceased his idle musical observation, much to Hux's relief. Perhaps he has engrossed himself in the operatic storyline, but a quick glance to his companion proves otherwise. Ren's stare is a focused shrewdness that is somehow predatory, his eyes narrowed to slits of darkness as he leans forward, head angling to a slow tilt.

"What is it?" Hux asks.

Ren's booted feet block his vision as the man leaps from his seat and lights upon the railing before him, a railing that is less than the width of Hux's palm. 

"Ren!" he hisses. "Have you gone mad?"

But the senator either does not hear him or does not care to. He runs along the durasteel piping as if it is a sidewalk, swift, agile, and without a concern for the dramatic height difference between himself and death by the moon granite floor some five stories below.

Blaster fire rips through the cordial atmosphere and turns it to chaos, the undignified shrieks of patrons interspersed with the explosion of a semi-automatic round of blaster bolts.

The general's own weapon is in his grasp before he can finish his first undignified swear and he glances up just in time to see Ren vault over the edge of the nearest balcony, surcoat fluttering as he plummets nearly five stories.

 _"Ren!"_ Hux's shout is a useless blip of sound, swallowed in the cacophony of the crowd's vocal onslaught of panic. 

He grapples with the edge of the balcony, leans over it and cranes his neck, the expectation of Ren's broken form a furtive fear that rises unbidden into his mind, but the senator is nowhere to be seen in the flood of bodies struggling to exit to the building.

Swearing to himself in as many languages as he can manage, Hux elbows his way through the fleeing masses, skirting the shoving of shoulders and trampling of feet with ease, weaving his way down flight after flight of stairs until he reaches the ground floor.

By all the stars in the blasted galaxy, if that idiotic senator has managed to break his elegant neck before negotiations have even begun, Hux may very well find himself on the receiving end of life sentence. Or one very public execution.

The body of a flailing patron hurtles itself above the crowd and into the nearest pillar and Hux barely avoids the human projectile with a well-timed duck. The man crumples to ground, unmoving, head lolling at an unnatural, odd angle and the general darts through a rushing congregation of Twi'leks and skirts a blue-skinned Chiss who is more concerned with rescuing the train of her elaborate dress than her own well-being.

He charges into the midst of the fast-dispersing flock of beings and skids to an abrupt halt near a plush rows of chairs. In the center of the aisle stands the senator, very much alive and not at all injured from the looks of it, four blasters and two vibro blades all targeting that lavishly dressed body of his.

Hux drops into a crouch, the barrel of his blaster edging between two chairs. Three of the men are easy targets and Hux's reflexes are quick enough to deal death in an instant before any of them can so much as blink, but it is the remaining three that worry him. He hasn't the firepower to take out six men before any of them can discharge their weapons. 

"Hey," one of the men snarls at Ren, who stands with eerie, almost pleasant calmness among them. "We didn't come here for you, but since you wanna make this your business . . . ."

"All injustice is my business," Ren says and Hux resists the urge to roll his eyes.

 _What heroic foolery._

"Yeah, we know all about you," a slender Bothan with peculiar symbols shaved into his shaggy fur says. "The vigilante senator, always sticking his nose where it doesn't belong." The Bothan aims the blaster at Ren's head, finger steady upon the trigger. "Maybe somebody should take you out of office."

"Well, go on, then," Ren says. As if he is merely amused. Even bored. "By all mean, fire." 

The Bothan snorts, aims with purpose, and Hux levels a killing shot at the hairy forehead, praying that Ren does nothing so foolish as to hinder the path of the blaster bolt. He squeezes the trigger, the blaster's silencing mechanism emitting little more than a muffled pop of air.

The Bothan collapses in a heap of furry limbs and Hux hits the ground with the expectation of return fire, face pressed to the moon granite, but is greeted with only eerie silence. Pushing himself into a kneel, he lifts his head to peer around the edge of the seat.

Ren stands between the five remaining beings, hands raised as if conjuring a forceful crescendo from an unseen orchestra. The blue glow of blaster fire seems to jam itself within the muzzle of their weapons, protruding in a static-like haze from the edges of the metal, but unable to proceed. The humans with vibro knives stand as if their hands are glued to their sides, fingers stiff, hilts slipping from their grasp to clatter to the ground.

"I haven't the patience for this," Ren says. "Caevelli's works are rarely performed any longer and yet, the five of you seem intent on ruining my evening." His voice dips into a lower register. "And I do not appreciate it." 

His gaze fixates upon the presumed leader, the Trandoshan with the largest blaster who then begins to choke, scaled hands trembling upon his weapon, unable to drop or discharge it. One gloved hand reaches towards the lizard-like male and begins a slow rise, the Trandoshan's body levitating from the ground. Booted feet attempt to kick, but merely wiggle with limp, almost comical weakness and corner of Ren's lip curves into a sneer.

The senator drops into a sudden low crouch, releasing whatever metaphysical hold he has upon his captives and the blasters fire. Three bodies drop as he scoops the knives from the floor and sends them sailing into the thighs of the remaining two adversaries with marked precision, the shock of the vibro blade coupled with the slicing of flesh crumpling the two men into screaming agony. 

Nudging the nearest man with his boot, the senator rolls him onto his back, drops to one knee beside him.

"And tipping your weapons in poison is such an archaic practice," he says. "You won't die, of course. Not if the authorities arrive in time to send you for the proper medical treatment, but I suppose you weren't thinking about yourselves when you planned this debacle, now were you?" 

A gloved hand reaches for the knife, toys with the hilt in an idle, sadistic flicking of fingers and the man screams before Ren yanks it free of his flesh, tossing it aside with a clatter.

"Well, then," Ren says. The crackling static of a lightsaber blade hums a threat near the man's throat as the senator leans over his adversary, pressing his advantage. "What did you learn, hmm?"

 _"Ren!"_ Hux shouts at last as he stalks over to where the senator kneels, purple saber flickering against the pale, sweat-sheened skin of what is most certainly a dying man. "What in the galaxy are you trying to pull?"

"Ah, General." The blade retracts with a hiss and senator rises to his feet, smoothing the wrinkles from his surcoat with one hand. "I must apologize for my horrible hospitality. Had I know drug dealing vendettas were afoot here, I would have most certainly picked a different venue for our evening out." 

Hux side-steps an effort by the downed criminal to grab at his boot and shoves the grappling imbecile away with the heel of his footwear. "Was it necessary to go vaulting over the side of the balcony like some manner of suicidal acrobat?" 

Ren arches an eyebrow. "Concerned for my well-being? How very flattering."

The man that is sans-knife in his leg clutches his thigh, a keening, repetitive wail tearing from his throat. Whatever poison that now courses through his bloodstreams has begun a slow, painful paralysis of his limbs, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, body stiffening at unnatural angles. Hux points the blaster at his forehead, firing without so much as a glance. The cries recede into a strangled gurgle of sound and Ren shoots him a rather stern glare of disapproval.

"Was that truly necessary?"

It is now Hux's turn to display a well-placed sneer. "Was it 'truly necessary' to choke that Trandoshan in such a vulgar display of power? And that knife-wielding imbecile was well on his way to death. I merely sped up the process."

 _"Death?!" T_ he remaining survivor shrieks the word in a pitch that makes Hux grit his teeth. "I thought you said we wouldn't die from the poison if--"

The general aims the blaster at the man's chest and fires.

"He lied," he says to the new corpse upon the floor. " _Honestly,_ Ren."

The senator shrugs a shoulder, an elegant if not dismissive gesture. "Perhaps I preferred to give him a bit of hope in his last moments." He glances at the array of bodies upon the ground with a sigh. "Well, this particular event has been a disaster. Perhaps you would care for some dinner instead?"

Hux shoves the blaster back into its holster and gives Ren's proffered hand a look of distaste before deigning to offer his arm instead. Ren's hand rests atop his wrist, a gesture that defers to Hux as the escort.

"Do be mindful of the blood," Ren says. "I would hate to see your lovely uniform marred by such a thing."

"Hmn, yes. Well, it would not be the first time," Hux grunts. "I don't suppose you wish to stay and speak with the authorities first?"

The senator's lips curve into a smile as he allows the general to lead him towards the door. "It isn't necessary when one _is_ the authority." 

(TBC . . . .)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing and dining and photographers, oh my.

The senator does not need to peruse the menu, nor does he require the "specials" that the waiter attempts to list. Kylo dismisses the practiced speech with a mere lifting of his hand and the server silences himself, as if on cue.

"The Dantooine sea snail and blue leaf salad with hex seed dressing, please."

"Of course, Senator," the waiter says. "And for you, sir?"

Hux shrugs a shoulder. "Bring me whatever nonsense he just described as well."

The waiter brightens with a smile. "Excellent choice, sir. A real tickle of the palate."

"Wonderful," Hux grunts as he sits back in his chair. "Well then, Ren. Shall we get down to business?"

"Business?" Kylo chuckles, an amused sort of snicker that is light, almost airy. "We shall not speak of business this evening, General. I believe I made that clear upon your arrival."

A faint splash of indignant color climbs Hux's neck and Kylo does nothing to repress his smile. Having his schedule dictated with the audacity of "down time" is perhaps problematic to him, if not amusing. 

"Blast it all, Ren. I did not come to this planet for some manner of vacation. If you seek to waste my time . . . "

"Your time," the senator interrupts, "will be well-spent, I assure you. By the stars, you certainly haven't changed at all. Pragmatic and hurried in all things. Do you not find such an attitude to be tiring?"

"I find it to be _efficient_ ," Hux half-growls, his tone sharpened with irritation. "My time is valuable."

"So is mine," Kylo says with a purposeful air of boredom, which further reddens Hux's fair complexions. "I simply choose a different method of spending it."

"Absurd," Hux says.

"To the militant-minded, yes."

"Honestly, Ren."

The General's look of sullen disdain melds into a sharp stare of marked suspicion as he focuses on one corner of the dining area, hand edging towards his blaster. Kylo does not follow his stare, but rather takes a sip of his water, nudging Hux's booted foot with his own beneath the table.

"Photographers," he informs the near-bristling man. "No cause for alarm. Quite harmless, I assure you. Although, a bit of an aggravation when one is simply attempting to have a quiet dinner with an old friend."

Hux stiffens. "We are not and have never been 'friends,' Ren."

"Hmn," Kylo muses in wordless acknowledgment of the assertion.

The General's rather acerbic observation is a corrective sting that neither Kylo's expression nor his demeanor betray. Meeting the young cadet for the first time had been a lesson in emotional fortitude for then 5-year old Ben, as he had once been called. One his mother had not appreciated. Young Hux had been somewhat of a vicious brat from the start of it all, as if being forced to "entertain" young Ben had been a demeaning task so beneath the soles of his boots, that mere toleration was the best he could manage aside from outright malice. 

 

_"My father says little boys who cry all the time get thrown in the sarlacc pit." The fair-haired son of the fearsome Commandant had all but sneered, eyeing young Ben with a disdainful sort of sniff._

_"That isn't true." Ben scrubbed at the betrayal of his leaking eyes._

_"Probably for the best for you," the older boy had said. "A sarlaac wouldn't even want to eat you and then you'd just starve down there until you died."_

 

"Ren."

Hux's voice snaps him out of his revelry and the senator flicks a lazy stare in his direction.

The general drums ungloved fingers on the table. "Are you even listening?"

"No," Kylo confesses. He sits up a bit straighter, rolls his shoulders and motions to the waiter to refill his water. "It takes some time to prepare this dish." He tilts his head and favors the general with sly sort of smile. "Perhaps you would favor me with a dance?"

"A dance?" Hux sneers as if the idea has rankled the very fabric of his being. "Surely you are not serious."

"I am quite serious," Kylo says. He combs an idle hand through his dark locks, the charms that wrap the end of a small, decorative braid tinkling. "But I do understand if you do not know how."

"Of course I know how!" Hux huffs. "I simply do not wish to endure the prospect of your booted feet scuffing my own."

A smirk curves one side of Kylo's mouth. "I will allow you the pleasure of publicly berating me for my clumsiness, should I so much as tap your boot."

Hux casts him a dubious look. "What of your fans lurking in the potted plants? Surely you do not wish to give them a show."

The senator waves a dismissive hand. "I will take care of them." He extends his fingers to the general with a smile. "If you have run out of excuses to deny me, shall we?"

Hux hesitates but for a moment longer before slipping his hand reluctantly into Kylo's grasp, allowing the senator to lead him past the tables and onto the expansive dance floor where the live band has begun a dark, melodic waltz.

From the corner of the room, the flash of an old-fashioned camera winks and Kylo raises a hand, clenching his fist. A popping tinkle of glass and muffled curse follow in the wake of the action and the senator chuckles. 

"Well," Hux says. "This certainly explains why there are no pictures of you to be found."

"One would think they would learn," Kylo says. He slips an arm around Hux's slender waist and grasps his free hand with a loose clasping of fingers. "Mind if I lead?"

"Hmph," Hux grunts. "If you must."

Kylo straightens his stance, splays his fingers over the small of Hux's back, and pulls him closer. "I promise you will enjoy it." 

"Ren," Hux begins with an air of annoyance. "If you think to woo me with this nonsense, I---"

"Oh, I am most aware that you are quite 'un-wooable,' General," Kylo interrupts, the lightness of his tone masking the truth of the words.

_No, he has not forgotten._

The general clamps his mouth shut and allows himself, however unwillingly, to be properly waltzed, the precision of his steps a mirror of Kylo's own. Militant. Perfect. Much like the man himself, who seems more prone than ever to keeping all things practical and severe. It is almost charming in a rather twisted fashion. 

Everything from the general's posture to his reluctant hand placement is a distancing measure, the vibration of his energy not hostile, but cautious, as if it is a protective line of defense somehow. 

_Hmm. Well, then._

Kylo sweeps him past an elderly couple who barely sway to the rhythm of the band, Hux's cape billowing with an important flare of white that is a striking counterpoint to the rustling wave of Kylo's black surcoat. 

"You dance well, Ren," the general concedes at last. "Tell me, how many toes did you have to break to learn such an art?"

The senator jerks him closer, smirking when the slightest hint of a gasp escapes the other man. "None that were of any importance." 

It is nearly the end of the song before the general shows the faintest hint of relaxing into Kylo's hold, the rigidity of his spine softening, the grip of his hand far less severe, but the senator does not continue onward through the next song. Instead, he releases his companion, hand trailing away from his waist with gentle brush of fingers.

"Wait," Hux says, clasping Kylo's wrist with his own. "You have had your turn at this. Now, allow me to show you how it is truly done."

The senator arches one dark eyebrow. "If you insist." 

Hux's grip is clinical yet commanding, his chin lifted, green eyes fixed in some strange sort of defiance upon Kylo's visage. As if something must proven. Asserted. The senator chuckles, the sound more of an inelegant giggle than it should be.

Hux's nose wrinkles as he executes a sharp turn that makes the hem of Kylo's surcoat flutter and swish. "What manner of ridiculous laughter was that?"

"You needn't be so aggressive with your movements," Kylo says. "I can follow you just fine without the insistent pull of your hand."

"Can you?" Hux's ironclad grip does not relax as he half-marches Kylo across the dance floor.

"So militant," Kylo observes.

"Do be quiet, Ren," Hux says.

The senator silences himself with a knowing smile, which only serves to further irritate the other man, who makes a point of choosing a more complex version of a simple dance, which Kylo manages to follow with ease. If Hux believes himself to be capable of making Kylo's steps falter, he is mistaken. The senator is well-versed in the ways of courtly dance, among other things. The clumsy, gangly teenager that the general last encountered is a distant memory. 

The second song draws to climatic close, a tinkling of horns and stringed instruments in a free-style cadenza of sorts and Hux steps away, his release immediate and curt.

"I believe our dinner has arrived," he says, nodding towards the table.

Kylo glances over his shoulder. "So it has. Shall we, then?"

Hux manages a stiff nod, his gait as staunch as his posture as Kylo falls into step beside him to return to the table.

In distance, another camera flashes and clatters to the ground in a heap of useless metal.

___________________________________________

 

It is far too late for the general's liking when Kylo's aide docks the speeder on the grounds of the estate. An evening wasted, as far as the militant general is concerned. What was the use in such finery and nonsense when there is business to discuss? But he had acquiesced to Ren's whims just the same for the sake of diplomatic decency, however begrudging it might have been. 

The Commandant would be pleased. Hux resisted the urge to roll his eyes skyward at the thought. 

"I will have my assistant procure your things and deliver them to your rooms," the senator was saying as he strolled along beside Hux, their shoulders nearly touching.

The man was infuriatingly close. Ren had no sense of personal space and never had managed to learn the art of giving it to another. Yet another quirk that the general commanded himself to endure without comment. While he had assumed this encounter would be an exercise in patience, he hadn't the faintest idea just how taxing it might be in the end.

"Very well," Hux says. "But no more of this hospitality nonsense, Ren. In the morning, we commence discussions."

The senator's smile is tinged with placid amusement that is as infuriating as it is alluring and ---

Hux comes to a halt, the ensuing frown sketching matching lines of displeasure across his forehead. No, that could not be right. There were many words he might use to describe Kylo Ren, but "alluring" was not one of them. Maddening, perhaps. Vexing might be better. Irritating. Aggravating ---

"What is it?"

The smooth darkness of Ren's voice is far too near to his ear and Hux represses the urge to visibly grit his teeth.

"Nothing," he says. "Lead on." 

The ornate double doors to Ren's estate swing open and while logic tells Hux that the stately slabs of carved wood are automated for such things, the effect is, nonetheless, impressive, much like some manner of castle rather than what is considered to be a "modest" home.

Hux himself cannot even begin to relate to such nonsense. The Commandant's housing, while spacious enough for a small family, had been efficient. Compact. Precise. His mother's garden had been a concession to frivolity, and even then, the plants were confined to a particular area. Still, her influence had been felt in other ways. 

A dour-looking Twi'lek with meaty headtails greets the senator with a smile that is at once genuine and almost exhausting to watch, his heavy jowls a ponderous addition to his mottled green skin. 

"Good evening, sir. I trust the opera was enjoyable?"

"Perhaps not in the way one would expect, but yes," Ren says. He rests a hand upon Hux's shoulder. "Belwyn, this is General Hux of the First Order. He and his men are our guests for the next week."

"Ah, yes," the now-named Belwyn gives the general a respectful nod. "Pleased to meet your acquaintance, sir. I have heard much about you and your fine organization."

"Belwyn is one of my mother's oldest and dearest friends," Ren informs him. "He handles the affairs of all who work for me. Should you have need of anything, he is the one to ask."

"I shall keep that in mind," Hux says.

"Do you wish for me to show the general to his quarters, sir?" Belwyn asked.

"No, thank you. I will do it myself," Ren says. "Please have his things delivered there in a timely fashion."

"As you like, sir." The Twi'lek stepped to one side, resuming what seemed to be his appointed post for the moment.

Ren's hand still rests upon his shoulder and Hux resists the urge to shrug it away. Even through the cape and his rather thick coat, the warmth of Ren's hand seems to penetrate the layers, his palm heavy and solid. As if sensing Hux's "irritation," the hand slides away as the senator leads him through the ornate foyer, up one side of set of double staircases, and down a corridor longer than his shuttle. Vases of fresh flowers interspersed with paintings, a stately, if not antiquate flare, but one that Hux could appreciate. His upbringing had not been entirely devoid of such things. 

"My room is at the end of this hall," Ren says. "Belwyn insists that the door be guarded, which is quite a nuisance, but there is little I can do to change his mind." The senator waves a hand towards the human male standing at the far edge of the hallway. "Should you have need of me, you may contact me via comlink or simply knock. The guards know who you are."

"Hmn," Hux says. "I feel quite certain I shall manage on my own."

"Alright." Ren's lips curve into that growingly-familiar smile, that one that suggests he knows of something Hux cannot possibly be privy to and the general resists the urge to frown.

Almost.

The senator halts before a set of double doors and gestures to it with one hand. "Your quarters, general."

"Thank you," Hux manages stiffly.

Before he can reach for the handle, Ren's fingers find his own, grasping the tips and lifting them to his lips where he presses a genteel kiss across the top of his gloved knuckles. 

_What manner of absolute nonsense . . . ?_

Hux snatches his hand away, curling his fingers as if in disgust, a sneer lifting one side of his lip.

"What in the galaxy do you think you're doing?" he hisses.

"Simply bidding you a good night," Ren says. Conversational. As if the answer is obvious. 

" _Words_ shall suffice," Hux says in a curt, clipped voice that drips acid and ice.

The senator seems unimpressed with his venom. Even amused. 

_Great bastard._

"Good night, then," the other man says.

Hux frowns with as much distaste as he can muster, watching as the senator departs with a swish of his coat, the edges billowing away from him as he walks. As if the outfit had been made for it, a purposeful flash of leather and sleek muscle. 

"What nerve," he grumbles under his breath.

The door is non-standard, requiring that Hux actually pull the handle down in order to gain entrance. How charming. Much of Ren's estate seems to be a such, or at least disguised in a way that draws the eye to something other than modern mechanisms and mechanical conveniences. While he would never admit such a thing to Ren, Hux has an appreciation for it. His own mother often insisted upon such things, eschewing modern convenience in favor of something less practical, yet more visually appealing. For all his staunchness, the Commandant had acquiesced to the whims of his wife on more than one occasion. Hux himself had tastes than ran the gamut between simplistic and modern to practical yet antiquated. An odd mix, to be certain.

The lights brighten the room automatically as he steps inside, and he takes a moment to chuckle at Ren's combination of old world and useful. The room is somehow lavish but modest, furnished with the essentials as well as cleverly placed nods to art and culture. His belongings are arranged beside the expansive bed, near the nightstand.

But it is what is stretched upon the bed that sends the usually stoic general into a mild state of panic. 

_"Great galaxy!"_ Hux half-shouts as he backs against the door with enough abruptness to jiggle the handle.

The animal that has seen fit to claim the bed as its own raises its head, eyes a piercing, almost glowing green, black fur a generous ruff around its neck, pointed ears swiveling in his direction.

Hux fumbles for the comlink, taps the button, and brings it to his lips.

"Ren!" he hisses into the small speaker. "Ren, come in _this instant!"_

The creature takes a moment to stretch before sitting up, its height far more impressive than Hux would have liked. Black as pitch. Canine. And slowly placing enormous paws upon the ground.

_"Ren!"_ Hux barks. "Do you copy?!"

The dog takes a step towards him, head down, strange green eyes fixed upon him and Hux presses his back against the door, one hand upon his blaster.

"If you attempt to consume me, I will shoot you," he warns the animal.

Stars, if the thing were to stand on its hind legs, it would eclipse him in both height and weight. But it makes no further move towards him. Instead, it tilts its head, as if his words are somehow amusing and saunters towards the closet. Hux stares as the animal glances over one furry shoulder, steps beyond the door . . . and vanishes, not into the confines of the closet itself, but rather evaporates from sight, as if it has melded into the darkness.

The general blinks. Rubs at his eyes. 

_What in the blazes . . ._

Behind him, the door opens and he nearly collides with Ren, who catches him by the shoulders to keep him from falling backwards into an undignified heap.

"What is it?" he asks.

Fingers press into Hux's shoulders and he struggles out of the other man's hold, resisting the urge to brush himself off as if Ren's touch has somehow tainted him.

"There was a rather large beast sprawling itself on my bed," Hux informs him. "And it seems to have vanished into the closet."

The senator arches one eyebrow. "A monster in your closet, General?"

"No, you imbecile," Hux huffs. He gestures inarticulately with one hand and sighs through his nose. "It has literally vanished. I did not hallucinate this, Ren." 

"Of course you did not." The senator taps the side of his thigh and snaps his fingers. 

From the darkened edge of the hall, green eyes appear and a set of paws larger than the span of Hux's hands step out of the shadows, as if the animal has peeled itself from the darkness. As it if is a part of it.

Only one manner of beast can do such things, one that should no longer exist in this world. Or so Hux had believed. 

"Is that . . . " Hux wets suddenly dry lips. "Is that an Alderaan Shadow Hound?"

"What a good eye you have, General," Ren says.

He cannot discern if Ren's words are sarcastic, amused, or if his sudden affronted reaction is of his own creation. 

The dog in question comes willingly to Ren's side, shoving its massive head beneath Ren's hand, leaning upon him with a look of such adoration that Hux struggles to contain the reflexive frown that pulls at his lips. 

"I suppose I should apologize," Ren says. "He often naps in there while I am away. It is his favorite spot."

"Charming," Hux sneers. "Tell me, wherever did you acquire such an animal? I thought them to be extinct."

"I don't know where he came from." Ren scratches behind the dog's pointed ears, ruffles the fur at his neck. "He was a gift from my mother when I was nine years old. I have never thought to question his origins." 

Strange, Hux cannot recall seeing such a beast at Ren's side at any of their awkward past meetings. How had Ren managed to keep the thing a secret?

"They are very long-lived from what I understand," Hux says. He eyes the dog with an assessing look before continuing. "What do you call him?"

"Nexus," Ren says. He strokes the dog's silken fur. "You can pet him, if you like."

Hux waves a hand. "I do not think that is neces---" But the beast has already moved faster than his eye can perceive, has pushed its head beneath his free hand, demanding that he bestow affection upon it.

Hux stiffens for a moment and the animal stands in patient repose, not a testing of wills, but simply waiting. After several long moments, he runs hestiant fingers atop the dog's head with a ginger motion which relaxes into something a bit more akin to petting than timid tapping. The great beast leans into the touch, going to far as to nuzzle his hand and the faintest hint of a smile pulls at the corners of Hux's mouth.

Ren's smile, however, is far more obvious. "He likes you."

"Splendid," Hux grunts.

The hound emits a sound that is half rumble and half bark, leaving Hux to return Ren's side, putting an end to the affection.

"If there are no more strange creatures in your room, I shall retire," Ren says.

"None but you," Hux says.

The other man chuckles, the sound more of that ridiculous, airy sort of giggle Hux remembers from earlier. What an odd man Ren has turned out to be . . .

"Goodnight, then," Ren says. One corner of his mouth curves into a smirk. "Again."

"Yes, yes," Hux says. He follows in Ren's wake long enough to close the door, leaning against it with a sigh.

The Commandant is expecting his report before the evening is finished, but Hux is far too exhausted to consider such dealings at present. Perhaps a shower first. Maybe a short rest afterwards. 

Unhooking the clasps that hold the cape to his uniform, he drapes the fabric over the nearest chair and sits upon the bed to remove his boots. Freed of the leather footwear, he lies back upon the mattress, relishing the inviting softness.

Perhaps he will simply close his eyes. _Just for a moment._

________________________________________________________

(Amazingly awesome artwork of the dancing idiots by my bestest Tumblr buddy and favorite enabler, Jeusus! Find her on [Tumblr](http://jeusus.tumblr.com/)

and follow her!

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazy breakfast and unpleasant reports and dagger-throwing, oh my!

"I have the papers as requested, Lord Ren."

The senator glances up from his morning tea with an amused sort of smirk. "Belwyn, I have asked that you do not call me that."

The ends of the Twi'leks thick headtails twitch, their color deepening as he hands over the stack of documents. "My apologies, sir. I forget myself."

Kylo waves a hand. "It matters not." He takes the papers from the other male and offers him a smile. "Thank you."

Belwyn executes a short bow. "My pleasure, sir."

Adjusting the drape of his wide-sleeved robe, the senator sets the papers in his lap, sipping his tea and perusing the words upon the page.

 

_A formal request for your presence is hereby put forth. In the event of your voluntary absence in such matters, a holo conference may be substituted at the discretion and agreement of all council members present and in accordance with local law and custom._

 

Kylo chuckles. An unnecessary amount of jargon to simply say, "come in person or we won't like it." Not that Kylo particularly enjoys political discourse in any form. Public speaking is nuisance, meetings an absolute bore. The senator has far more important things to attend to.

One black paw scrapes at his thigh and he reaches a hand towards the set of pointed ears, scratching behind them.

"I suppose you would like to go outside and chase unwitting rabbitdeer," he says.

Nexus chuffs in response and an image of a black blur gleefully tearing through the nearest field filters into the senator's consciousness.

"Yes," Kylo remarks. "And I seem to also remember that you got yourself kicked in the snout on that day as well."

The hound shakes his head with a soft snort, collar jingling.

"No need to argue. You know it was absolutely your fault," Kylo says. "I dare say you deserved it, too."

Nexus shoves at his hand with a grumble and Kylo resumes his ear-scratching. He runs his fingers through the silken neck ruff and scratches a patch of fur between the hound's shoulders. The end of the next week will mark their 20th year together, time well spent on the part of both parties. Out of habit, Kylo glances at the fur that he ruffles with his hand. Black as pitch. Not a hint of white.  

_But one day . . . ._

"Perhaps you should go and see what is keeping our dear general," Kylo says to his companion. "Surely he is awake by now."

The dog tilts his head attentively, nuzzling the palm of Kylo's hand in a final gesture of affection before taking up a running start towards the nearest dark corridor. As if he is a puppy testing his abilities for the first time. Kylo watches as the furry hindquarters vanish into the shadows and waits.

From the opposite end of the corridor comes a yelping sort of shout followed by swift, fluent cursing. The comlink attached to his belt bleats furiously, the incoming message button flashing with such indignation that Kylo almost wonders if Hux himself has somehow possessed it.

Unclipping the device, he taps the green button and brings it to his lips. "Yes, General?"

 _"Ren!"_ the cultured voice on the opposite end of the communication snarls. "Are you aware that . . . that _beast_ of yours appeared within the lavatory at the most inopportune of times?!"

Kylo stifles an inelegant giggle into the palm of his free hand. "Are you not clothed, then?"

"My state of dress is none of your concern!"

A pause. A clapping of hands.

"You get away from there _this instant!"_

Kylo brushes a hand over his robe, plucking a tuft of Nexus's hair from the cuffed sleeve. "If you've had a bath instead of a shower, I do hope you drained the water from the bathtub. Nexus rather fancies the lake."

_"Blast it all . . .!"_

Shuffling of cloth. The slamming of a door.

"Breakfast is in 10 minutes, General," Kylo says. "Please join me in the dining area to the left of the foyer. I do promise to keep Nexus out of your bacon."

The General's irritation is near palpable through the small speaker, the gritting of his teeth as apparent as the twin suns shining through the expansive window. "Could you kindly retrieve him now, Ren?"

"Of course," the senator says. "But you need only to tell him yourself to send him on his way."

Hux huffs. "Fine. You, there. Remove yourself from my presence at once!"

Silence.

"Well?" Kylo prompts.

"While I have understanding of just what these animals are capable of, I do wish he would not have chosen to crawl beneath my bed in order to perform his vanishing act."

The senator laughs, unable to make the effort for polite restraint.

Hux's voice crackles over the speaker with static-laced indignation. " _Honestly,_ Ren."

The green light grows dim upon the comlink and Kylo sits back in his chair. So much for proper morning conversation. And odd way to break the proverbial ice, but an effective one.

From the dark recesses of the hallway, a pair of brilliant green eyes appear and the hound lopes over to him, nudging at his thigh, tongue lolling from his mouth as if in frank amusement.

"Proud of yourself, are you?" Kylo scratches the space behind the animal's ears, where the fur is fine and velveteen.

Nexus sits back with a rumble, tongue lolling from his mouth and Kylo tips his head to one side as the images of the encounter drift to his mind.

"Oh," he says. "Well, that's quite nice, now isn't it?"

The tongue retracts and the dog grunts.

"Fair point," Kylo says. "I suppose seeing the general in such a state isn't of any particular interest to you."

Although, the senator thought, perhaps it should not be of any particular interest to himself. Nearly fourteen years has passed since he last saw the general, who has grown past his "awkward" phase and ascended into proper manhood.

Well. Hux had never really had such a phase, if Kylo were remembering correctly. The fair-haired general, while slight of frame and wiry in stature had possessed a kind of handsome arrogance, even at a young age. Some of it appeared through physical attributes, but a great deal of it had been carriage, a confidence that young then-Ben Solo had not yet mastered.

Poise and social grace came to Hux with ease, but Kylo had spent many a year working on honing things as simple as holding utensils without gripping them like a prisoner would grasp a knife. Or eating like one. His mother had seen to it that his mannerisms were befitting the political arena, but she had not once insisted upon it. The choice had been Kylo's own.

Kylo stands with a rustle of fabric, the thick heaviness of the robe trailing the ground behind him as he walks. Leia would have pretended to chastise him for still walking about at this hour in what was considered lounging attire, ornate though it may be, but the senator had found that he hadn't the inclination to dress himself in proper "day time" clothing. A dull ache had begun just behind his eyes with a mirror tingle in his throat.

Perhaps "fencing" with the cook's cold-stricken children in the courtyard had been a mistake. Strange, it is not like him to come down with any sort of illness.

 _Unless one of the children had been . . ._ .

"Well." The general's snappish, uptight voice. "Here I am, then."

Kylo ceases pinching the bridge of his nose and turns to face his companion, who is clothed in black parade dress, uniform without a crease, boots polished to a high shine. As if he is on display, ready for inspection.

"Good morning, General," Kylo says.

"I could not find your alleged area beside the foyer," Hux says. "Your aides informed me that I might find you here instead."

"And so you have," the senator says. "I realize the estate is quite large. Come. I will show you to the room myself."

Hux glances down at Ren's proffered arm, at the dark blue fabric embroidred with silver designs, the inordinately long cuff of the sleeve that is thick and folded back upon itself.

"Whatever are you wearing, Ren?"

"A robe," Kylo answers with a smirk.

The corner of Hux's lip curves into a sneer. "Really? I hadn't the faintest idea."

But he slips his arm beneath Kylo's own just the same, gloved hand resting atop of the fold of fabric that drapes his wrist.

How very unexpected.

"I suppose you wish me to eat something before we begin," Hux is saying as Kylo leads him through the hallways, Nexus padding along in their wake.

"Well, I cannot force you to join me. If you would rather sit and watch as I eat, that is your right," Kylo says.

Hux grunts. "You know exactly what I meant by that, Ren."

Kylo arches an eyebrow. "Did I?"

"Insufferable," Hux mutters.

Kylo chuckles and guides his companion into the shared dining space, a smaller version of the formal dinner service area. The table is set to accommodate only four people, reduced to two as the butler droid clears away the settings that are not needed. Taking a seat across from Hux, Kylo arranges the material of his robe so that it does not slide from his shoulders and regards the other man with a neutral, pleasant stare.

Stiff posture. Rigid setting of his jaw. Not a hint of relaxation visible on his person. As if the senator had expected anything less.

"If it pleases you, we may speak of the terms the Commandant wishes to discuss. My adviser has received your paperwork and is preparing it for review," the senator says.

"Hmn." Hux sits up a bit straighter as the butler droid brings forth a pot of tea and two cups. "And here I thought you did not care for business before breakfast."

Kylo shrugs one shoulder. "I am a reasonable man, General. If it would give you some sort of comfort to at least speak of the negotiations, I am open to such things."

"No," Hux says. "I would prefer it if you were to read the papers themselves first. I haven't any wish to explain this matter twice." He eyes the senator over the edge of his teacup. "You _will_ review the paperwork this afternoon, I take it?"

"Did I not just inform you of . . ." Kylo's words trail to a halt and he pinches the bridge of his nose with a cringe.

Hux arches an eyebrow. "Are you alright, then?"

"Fine." Kylo drops his hand with a sigh. "As I said before, my adviser is preparing the paperwork."

"Yes, I heard you," Hux says. "I do not understand why an aide must comb the document before you review it yourself. I assure you, there is nothing unclear or subversive within its contents."

Nexus rests his muzzle on Kylo's thigh and he reaches down to scratch the dog's head. "It is policy, General. Nothing personal." He plucks the teacup from its saucer with two fingers and samples the brew himself. "I assume you are quite familiar with policy and procedure?"

The corner of Hux's lips twitches into the faintest hint of a sneer and Kylo chuckles.

Conversation dwindles into silence as the food is brought forth, but Kylo finds that he has surprisingly little appetite. Having Hux within the confines of his home has produced a strange mix of anticipation and tension within him, neither of which are gratifying.

"You were quite good with those knives last night," Hux says at last.

Kylo glances up from the slice of fruit he has begun to peel and tips his head to one side. "Really?"

"Yes," Hux says with a nod. "Tell me, were you using that 'Force' nonsense to aid you?"

Peeling the rind away from a pale pink slice of citron, Kylo nudges to the edge of his plate with one finger. "No," he says. "Those skills are my own."

"Hmn," Hux muses. "Impressive."

Had the general managed to compliment him without a side of snide commentary? Surely not.

"Perhaps I could show you a bit of the technique," Kylo says. "If you are interested, of course."

The general cuts a piece of the pastry upon his plate into a perfect square, spearing it dead center with his fork. "It would seem that we have time before you do your reading," Hux says. He slips the morsel between his lips a chews thoughtfully for a moment before gesturing to Kylo with his fork. "Although you might wish to change out of that nonsense."

"You do not think I can throw knives properly in this robe?" Kylo asks, a smirk curving one side of his mouth.

"I cannot imagine one could do much properly in that----" The general snatches his hand away from his plate, nearly upending his chair in his effort to jerk back from the table as Kylo's breakfast knife lodges itself mere increments from his plate. He narrows his eyes, rubs at his wrist as if he has been struck. "Are you _mad,_ Ren?"

"No," Kylo says. "Just extremely accurate."

 

 

_______________________________________________

 

 

"Have you spoken to the senator of our intentions?"

  
Hux paces the small space aboard his shuttle, the image upon the screen crisp and clear. As if the man is standing before him, looming over him as he always has. Demanding. Waiting.

"No, sir," Hux says. He clasps his hands behind his back and straightens his shoulders, expression of neutrality firmly in place. "His aides are set to review it this afternoon. He will then read the documentation for himself."

"General, I do not like this." On the screen, the Commandant's face creases with displeasure, an older mirror of Hux's own expression. "He wastes your time and mine with his frivolities and candor. The First Order hasn't the time for such nonsense."

Fingers dig into the soft leather of his gloved palms and Hux grits his teeth just enough to keep the tension in his jaw from showing. "I realize your dilemma, sir. However, these are the rules of negotiation and engagement. After all, it was you yourself who said--"

"I _know_ what I said." The Commandant's voice is clipped, brisk. "And you are still to do as I have instructed. Do you understand, General?"

A slow exhalation of breath through his nose with no visible chest movement. "Yes, sir."

"Once the senator has perused the documents, report to me immediately."

The screen goes blank before Hux can confirm a response, before he can so much as speak, and he is grateful for it. While there is little more that he can do, it as if the Commandant is somehow in the room with him, his presence stifling the air he breathes, forcing his posture to attention until the base of his spine aches.

The man would demand nothing less, of course. Not from a general of the First Order, especially one who shares not only his blood, but his namesake. Structure and discipline. Order and respect amongst the chaos that is the universe. These are the things that are not only demanded of him, but instilled within him to such depth, he does not when his own thoughts begin and his father's rhetoric ends.

He leaves the shuttle, makes his way back to Ren's estate. The other man is waiting in the courtyard for him with promises of knife-throwing technique and sparring, something Hux rarely gets to engage in any longer.

The title of "General" demands that his passions and hobbies be set aside for the good of the Order, that Hux himself is molded into something that no longer resembles the man he used to be.

That man, he thinks, never truly had the chance to "be" at all.

As expected, Ren and his beast are strolling amongst the hedges, Ren's hand providing and idle scratch to his companion from time to time as he pauses before bushes and greenery, his fingers tickling the edges of petals and leaves.

Hux could swear that the blue-white of the arctic roses deepens at the touch of Ren's hand.

 _What nonsense._ Surely his eyes have deceived him.

"Well, Ren," Hux says, folding his arms across his chest. "Here I am, then."

The senator turns with a swish of fabric, the robe having been exchanged for a light, flowing tunic that reaches just past his knees, the slits on each side allowing for ease of movement. The dark burgundy material is belted with a wide sash of black, the pants loose an flowing over Ren's booted feet. Not patterns upon the silk. No adornments within his hair. The man is comfortable elegance, regal in even the simplest of attire.

It is skill that Ren has acquired during their time apart, one that he has honed to a natural grace that is neither forced nor overt. Hux resists the urge to sigh through his nose and steps closer as Ren beckons to him.

"This," Ren says. "Is my favorite type of dagger."

He holds the blade aloft for Hux's inspection, the hilt a simple crossguard style, the blade of the weapon a thin, needle-like spike of steel.

"Some prefer a shorter, thicker blade, but I must admit that I quite admire the flash of metal when this one is thrown correctly." He cocks his wrist back and sends the blade sailing to lodge in a red-painted board tacked to nearby tree.

It lands with a definitive _thock_  , direct center.

"Impressive," Hux says.

"Easy," Ren says.

He produces another dagger from a sheath cleverly hidden by the drape of his sleep and holds it out to Hux. "The key, General, is a flexible grip. The blade should fly from the tips of your fingers with little effort. The movement of your wrist is the . . ."

Ren's words trail into a sharp gasp and he flinches into the crook of his elbow with wrenching sneeze that causes his canine companion to flatten his ears. He straightens with a blink, the look of surprise that etches his features enough to force Hux into feigning a cough to suppress his amusement.

"Excuse me," the senator says with one of those infernal chuckles that is both somehow silly and charming. "I . . . do not know where that came from."

Beside him, Nexus chuffs and shakes his head with a jingle of tags.

"It would seem that your friend might disagree," Hux says.

"Yes, well." Kylo flicks his gaze to the hound, who has lolled his tongue from his mouth in amusement. "I do not recall asking for his opinion."

The dog emits a grumbling sound and Ren strokes the top of his head before turning back to Hux.

"As I was saying, the movement is in the wrist. Give it a try so that I might see where to make a correction," Ren says.

Hux has been called upon to prove his efficiency and understanding more times than he can count. For his father. As a young cadet. Before his men. Accurate demonstration under pressure is a specialty of his.

However, standing beside the senator, this once awkward boy who has grown into a confident, regal man is suddenly unnerving. Hux shoves aside his absurd concerns and straightens his shoulders, tossing the dagger with more force than he means to use. It bounces hilt-first off the target and clatters to the ground.

"That was quite good, actually," the senator says. "But you needn't be so rigid."

Another dagger appears in his hand and Hux eyes him with an arch of one eyebrow.

"Exactly how many knives have do you have concealed upon your person, Ren?"

A smile. That ridiculous laugh. "Many."

A hand grasps his wrist and Hux tenses but for a moment.

"Relax," Ren says. He manipulates Hux's wrist with a sharp, flicking sort of jerk. "Like this."

Another flick. The insistent grasp of Ren's fingers.

"Do you feel the difference?"

"I . . . believe so," Hux says.

The dagger slips between his fingers and Ren closes his hand over it, his own grasp lingering long enough to leave behind a heated impression of upon Hux's ungloved skin.

"Try again," Ren says. "Breathe into the release. The dagger is an extension of you, not a separateness."

Hux draws a steadying breath, cocks his wrist back, and exhales with the sharp execution of the throw, the metal sailing from his fingers. The blade embeds itself in the target as far to the left as it can manage without scraping the side and vanishing into the bushes, but the throw is sound, the weapon finding its mark with a satisfying thwack of wood.

A hand rests upon his shoulder and squeezes.

"Well done, general," Ren says.

"Not particularly," Hux counters.

"Most cannot so much as hit the wood, much less make the dagger stick and certainly not the second try." Ren strolls to the tree where he pulls the daggers from the target and retrieves the one from the ground. "Really, you should learn to take a compliment."

Hux stiffens as the man saunters back towards him, a polite distance between, yet somehow encompassing all the space in the courtyard with his presence.

"Again?" Ren says.

Hux glances at the daggers and gathers them into his free hand. It is upon his first throw that the knife embeds itself near-center within the pock-marked wood.

________________________________________________


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever read a short fic of mine called "Liaisons," you will recognize some bits of this. I've reworked it to fit within the context of this story, as that's actually what sparked the whole thing anyway! Poor, pathetic Kylo is my jam.

"Kylo." The worried visage of his mother, the war general, leans closer to the screen, her brow wrinkling in concern. "I know the Commandant and I know his agendas. Please, you need to send me those papers."

The senator holds the documents between his fingers, stacking and restacking them. He had read the verbiage three times, has determined that Hux himself did not write it. While the language appears straightforward, something is hidden within the words, something he cannot quite piece together.  It is not so much what the document says, but rather, what it does not.

"Alright," he says. "But the general cannot know that I am breaking a confidence by doing so."

"Your aides have read them. Why am I any different?" Leia says so reasonably that he chuckles.

"Because," he says. "You are not a part of this negotiation. You know this."

On the screen, Leia waves a hand. "I am in control of an army. _Your_ army. There's no reason I can't see what the leader of another has to say."

_Well, when she puts it that way. . ._

"I will scan the file to you," Kylo says. He muffles a cough into the sleeve of his coat, an action which Leia does not miss.

"You don't sound well, son," she says.

As if anything could escape her notice. It is not only a maternal asset, but also Force-driven. Not to mention, Kylo fears he might look a bit more obvious than he intends. Now is not the time for illness, not with negotiations looming and decisions to be made.

"It is a trifle," he says to his mother, who does not look at all convinced.

"You are not often unwell," she says, despite his assurances. "Unless you have come into contact with someone who--"

"Yes, I know," Kylo interrupts. "But let us not speak of that in the open." He glances at the papers in his hands and then back to the screen. "One never knows who might be listening at this juncture."

"All the more reason for me to take a look at those," Leia says. A voice sounds from somewhere behind her and she turns to glance over her shoulder. "Something needs my attention. But I need you to send me those documents."

"Alright," Kylo agrees with a nod.

"We'll speak soon," Leia says.

The screen goes blank and Kylo passes a hand through his unbound hair. While his aides have found nothing amiss, like his mother, Kylo finds the straight-forward manner of the documentation somehow worrying. The petition seems simple in its request. Too simple.

A wet nose nudges his free hand and Kylo glances down at his furry companion with a smile before setting the papers aside and crouching down to Nexus's level.

"What do you think, hmm?" He rubs the tips of the furry ears, buries his fingers in the dog's ruff. "Is a rouse afoot?"

Images drift into his mind from the dog's perspective, scenes from the past that Kylo has long sense forgotten.

Young cadet Hux scowling scornfully at his crudely made "sword" which he had fashioned from a tree branch. A slightly older Hux switching the sugar for the salt to contaminate his tea. A moment where Hux had allowed him to trip "by accident" into soft, sinking mud. And then, young Ben leaping out of it to inflict the most glorious of hugs upon the other boy and his unsuspecting pristine uniform.

"Ah, yes." Kylo said. "Quite a scamp, wasn't he?"

The dog mutters a dark sound, tossing his head with a jingle of tags.

"Good of you to keep to yourself all that time and allow me my social disgraces," Kylo reminds the animal with a smirk.

A ponderous foot paws at his arm and Kylo ruffles the top of the dog's head with one hand.

"Well." Kylo rises to his full height and brushes at the front of his coat. "I had best prepare myself for this dreadful meeting. But you will keep an eye on our guest, yes?"

Nexus emits a short bark of agreement and disappears into the shadows, the flash of his tail a fluffy banner that vanishes with a swish.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The twin suns have begun to set by the time Ren rejoins him, a meeting that had turned into hours of debate stealing yet another day of negotiations. Hux does his best to mask his displeasure as the other man appears behind the gilded glass doors.

The senator steps out onto balcony, the wind causing that ornate shimmersilk robe of his to billow at odd angles.

"My apologies for the senate and its inability to find common ground in timely fashion," he says. "But I would like you to know that I have begun review of your proposal."

Hux frowns. "One would think you would be more concerned with your protection."

"I haven't any need for personal protection," Ren says. He glances over his shoulder, the hood of the robes ruffling around night-darkened visage as the breeze plays along the lines of the fabric. "But you know that, don't you."

Not a question. Hux grunts and says nothing. He has seen the man defend himself, has watched the bastard leapt atop the treacherously thin wooden edging of their box at the opera some five stories above the others, skirting blaster fire and running along the beam as if he is part feline. He has witnessed Ren hurl a vibro knife into the fleeing crowd of the masses, heard the definitive thock of the blade as it made contact and Ren's would-be assailant dropped to the ground, not dead, but perhaps wishing he might be soon with the glowing blue-purple blade of Ren's greatsaber suddenly at his throat.

It had taken Hux a moment to realize the man had vaulted over the edge of the box a good five stories down into the fleeing crowds and landed there without incident. No ordinary being could have survived such a thing. But then again, the senator was no ordinary man.

"You realize that we did not call this meeting to ensure your own personal safety," Hux says with a bit of a sneer. "But it is a well-known fact that your armada is not sufficient to defend your people, should an insurgence occur among them."

One eyebrow arches high. "An insurgence?" Ren repeats. "Are you implying that there is some manner of dictatorship here, General?"

The words are light, teasing. Unnerving. General Hux is well-versed in reading the emotions of others. Most beings are not aware of the subtly of micro expressions, the thoughts a simple, seemingly random gesture can reveal. The careless misplacement of a conjunction. But the senator is unreadable, his pale face a blank slate of neutrality.

"I meant no offense," Hux says, more so for the sake of cordiality than actual contrition. "It is an observation. Nothing more."

The corner of Ren's mouth twitches into the faintest rendition of a smile. "Of course."

 _Great bastard._ Hux starts to inform the other man that he is under no obligation to entertain his whims, that he has far more important matters to attend to. That is, until the other man's surveillance of the rolling hills becomes a distant, glassy stare.

Hux narrows his eyes. This is an expression he knows all too well. He has watched throughout the day as the senator has struggled not to succumb to it, somehow managing to avoid doing so, save once in the gardens. Unlike now, where it looks as if the battle might be lost.

Ren curls a hand beneath his nose and his breath hitches. Once. Twice. Even with the hood half-draping his profile, Hux does not miss the cringe of his features as whatever mechanism he might be employing to hold the sneeze at bay fails.

The sounds that escape the senator's control are deceptively soft, but belied by the shuddering of his broad shoulders. Containing it in that manner is an obvious, if not absurd ordeal for the man. Did he think himself cordial for it?

_What a ridiculous thing to expend such energy upon. . ._

The senator cringes against his hand, as if something has suddenly gotten the better of him and casts Hux a somewhat bleary gaze. "You will have to forgive me, General. I feel as if I may be coming down with something." He turns his head with a short heave of breath. A sigh trails in the wake of the somewhat poor attempt at stifling another sneeze. The array of durasteel wind chimes tinkle in a furious discord and Ren waves a hand at them, seeming to dismiss their chatter into silence. "Excuse me."

"Oh, great galaxy," Hux mutters as he fishes through the inner pocket of his greatcoat to retrieve a neatly folded square of cloth. " _Here._ Do not bother with that stifling nonsense on my behalf."

The slender fingers pluck the fabric from between his fingers. "Thank you," Ren says.

He dabs at the corner of his nose with a delicate tap of fingers and Hux resists the urge to toss himself over the balcony's ornate railing. Here he was, trapped with this ridiculous man in this absurd building now coupled with the possibility of a contagion? _What a kriffing fiasco._

Another sneeze. Less contained this time, as if the senator is tiring of this odd "politeness" he insists upon. The nearest hanging plant swings violently to one side, as riding an unseen current of wind and Hux frowns. He could have sworn the leaves of the plants below them were ruffling in the opposite direction.

The senator flicks his wrist towards the plant with a toss of fingers and the structure it resides in stabilizes.

"I believe I will retire, if you do not mind, General. The chill of the evening has grown . . . bothersome to me." Ren moves to pocket the handkerchief and pauses to raise an eyebrow. "I shall have this returned to you in a pristine state."

"I have others," Hux says. "Keep it."

The same slight smile curves one side of the senator's mouth. "Of course you do. Good night, then."

With a wave his hand, the door slides open and Hux does not know if it the work of mechanics or if the Force-user has drawn upon his abilities to do so. He pretends to observe the rolling greenery for a long moment as the rustle of Ren's clothing vanishes within the confines of the building, the door closing behind him.

 _No need for protection,_ Hux thinks to himself.  

_Foolish man._

 

* * *

 

 

The general pulls the gloves from his hands one finger at a time and tosses them onto the bed, resisting the urge to toss himself there as well in a childish display of aggravation.

The traitorous fools of the rebellion, he can handle. Rogue stormtroopers in need of reconditioning are a simple matter. Correcting the incompetence of crew members in accordance with policy and regulations comes easily to him.

Contending with this man, this senator, is far more of an irritation than Hux could have bargained for. How had awkward, gangly Ren grown into this?

Stars, it is as if the bastard had been groomed for such nonsense from birth, his every gesture an extension of his polite formality, the ruthless grace with which he dispatches his adversaries, the dry, almost deadpan humor that manages to still exude culture and refinement.

And then, there is matter of his stature, his broad shoulders coupled with the lean musculature of his body, his eccentric yet strangely striking facial features, the generous mouth and the prominent nose, the slight asymmetry of his jaw, the way those lips quirk into a beatific hint of a smile. . . . the sprinkling of dark spots upon that fair skin of his, like coded constellations strategically placed for connection.

Hux frowns. The entire situation is ludicrous.

Within his pocket, the comlink issued to him earlier begins a repetitive beep and he fishes it out with one hand, tapping the button with a grunt.

"What is it now, Ren?"

"General." The voice over the comlink is smooth, the unaccented yet somehow cultured ring of the word snapping him to attention. "Could you perhaps come into my chambers for a moment? I have a pertinent question for you that cannot be discussed over open communications such as this."

Hux grits his teeth. Swears to himself in several languages.

"You wish to discuss negotiations _now?_ "

"The guards will be expecting you."

The green light goes dark and Hux hooks the topmost closure of his uniform together with an angry flick of fingers. All day. The man had all day to bring forth his concerns, to contact Hux with any questions he might have had. What in the galaxy was so absurdly important that he must speak to Ren at this hour?

A hand brushes the stiff fabric of his jacket as if to straighten it and he even goes so far as to tug the supple leather of his gloves back over his hands before exiting the room to trek down the hallway. Certainly Ren will look the part, dressed in his ridiculous finery. Hux can envision the man now, draped over some absurd chaise of sorts with languid elegance, as if he simply came to be that way without any manner of thought to how the pose might look.

_Great bastard._

As Ren has promised, the guards near the ornate doors gave him no issue, one holding the door open for his arrival as he crosses the threshold into the senator's private quarters.

The room itself is not what expects. It contains no outpouring of garish wealth, the rugs upon the polished floors of simple design, the high-backed chair near the bookcase covered in plain brown leather, the desk to the left of it of the more standard variety, practical yet sturdy.

The bed itself is the only ornate decor, carved in sloping scrolls of dark wood, the headboard a scenic nod to the Corellian countryside with its wooden leaves and vine work. But it is not the furniture that drew Hux's attention. No, that would be Ren himself. And that enormous hound of his.

The senator is half-draped beneath the sheets of his bed, documents strewn about the duvet in various degrees of disorder, the dog's head resting in his lap. Gone is the finery of his robes, replaced by a simple, high-collared nightshirt, notched at his throat with a small closure. The cobalt blue silk boasts a loose sleeve that stops just shy of Ren's fingers, drawing inadvertent attention to the taper of them as he draws them through the animal's dark fur.

"I apologize for calling you here at this hour," Ren says. He tilts his head to one side with an assessing stare, dark eyes regarding Hux with a keen, piercing interest. "You weren't busy, were you?"

Busy doing what, exactly? Polishing his boots?

"No," Hux says. "What is it, then?"

The other man curls those tapered fingers beneath his nose with a cringe and turns his head enough to present his profile to Hux, sighing when he manages to keep whatever has begun to torment him at bay.

"You will have to excuse me," he says. "I seem to be unable to stop that."

Hux arches an eyebrow. Why in the galaxy would he care about such a thing? At least at this distance, he is not at risk of being caught in any manner of contagious crossfire.

"I am not concerned with your . . . . symptoms," Hux says. He gestures a rolling motion of one gloved hand. "Continue as you are."

"Alright," Ren says. He scans the documents strewn atop the blankets. "I see no reason for the First Order to ask the planet's 'permission' to recruit for their army. You know that you have always been free to do so, and yet, you request explicit permission for 'all manner of individuals.' Why would--" His words trail into a wavering hitch of breath and he shields Hux's view of his profile with a deflecting cover of his hand, his effort to constrain the subsequent sneezing into some semblance of politeness a physical strain that traverses his broad shoulders with a shudder.

Upon the wall, one of the smaller pictures trembles in response and the senator recovers with as much grace as he can manage. "--you need any sort of express permission for---"

Another sneeze, less controlled than the first few.

The vase upon the table nearest to Ren threatens to topple, but is righted by a simple gesture from Ren's hand, settling the object back into place.

"---such a thing. And you know this," the senator continues. "Before I bring this matter to my council, the agenda must be clarified. I suspect you are unaware of the proper protocol for such a thing, given the differing nature of our work, but I am willing t-- _iih--!_ "

The senator buries his nose in the folds of a cloth that Hux recognizes to be his own handkerchief from earlier that evening and does nothing to undermine the force of the sneeze, either because he has grown tired of trying or simply because can no longer manage it.

An ornate sculpture with knife-like durasteel leaves wobbles precariously and Hux barely manages to step aside with an awkward sort of halting hop before it crashes to the ground far too close to his boots for comfort.

The durasteel neither breaks nor bends and Hux reaches a gloved hand to gingerly set it properly upon its base once more, stepping away from it with more than a little disdain.

"Perhaps you should take something for that cold of yours," Hux says a bit more stiffly than he intends.

"No," Ren says. "I do not take medications." He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh as the dog nuzzles his arm, as if he somehow senses that there is more to his master's discomfort.

The hand behind Hux's back clenches into a fist.

_What absolute nonsense. What complete and utter---_

"The crux of the matter is that your request is so shockingly mundane, I am leery of it," Ren says as he plucks a paper from the stack. He raises his gaze to Hux, eyes a veil of shrewd darkness within his pale visage. "I will not be drawn into some sort of rouse."

Hux clasps both hands behind his back, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "Surely you cannot be serious. The language in the documentation is quite clear."

The senator's voice drops to a dangerous flatness. "Is it?"

One corner of Hux's lip lifts in a sneer. "If you are wasting my time, Senator . . ."

" _Your_ time?" Ren arches one dark eyebrow. "Perhaps it is the First Order who wastes mine?"

Hux narrows his eyes. "You _dare--_ "

The words are curtailed by another one of Ren's desperate sneezes and Hux's breath cinches tight in his chest as if he expects the decorative swords upon the wall to break free of their casing and impale him. The ominous rattle of one handle is enough to give him pause.

"Great galaxy, Ren!" Hux snaps before he can stop himself. "Can you not control that nonsense of yours?"

Ren has the nerve to dab at the corner of his nose with Hux's borrowed handkerchief with a rather pointed gesture, the First Order logo that emblazons the corner dangling from his fingers as if it mocks the general from a distance.

_How. Irritating._

"Clearly I am in no state to discuss this without distraction," Ren says.

"Clearly," Hux agrees with a soft noise of derision.

"My apologies for summoning you," Ren says. "We shall discuss this in the morning before the meeting."

Hux clenches his jaw once more. "Am I dismissed, then?"

The senator glances up, dropping the handkerchief-clad hand into his lap, eyes twin pools of unnerving assessment. As if Hux is a most bemusing thing. A trifle of sorts. "Yes."

"Good night to you," Hux says in a short, clipped tone and he executes a sharp turn of his heel and strides away with pointed vehemence, careful to the avoid the chair that has now become a pincushion for Ren's decorative armory.

He pauses as the guard closes the door behind him and rakes the soldier from navel to nose with a seething glare. "You there. Send someone to procure some tea for that miserable mess of a man before he manages to destroy this entire building with his symptomatic idiocy."

 The guard's stunned, open-mouthed hesitancy is missed as the general stalks his way down the hall and vanishes into the confines of his room, uncaring as the door slams shut in his wake.

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux begins to drop his carefully maintained guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys better prepare yourselves for the next chapter or two after this one, because OH BOY!

It is past the highest point of the suns before the general crosses paths with his host and a short inspection of his person provides obvious detail as to why. Ren's pallor is a shade of pale that broadcasts the faint pinkening that rims both his eyes and the edges of that impressive nose of his, despite his efforts to offset it with that absurd hair of his coiffed to perfection, threads of cobalt blue woven into the short braid that hangs near his ear, the inner lining of his surcoat flashing the same bright hue with every step he takes. Understated. Elegant even in this condition. Hux sighs through his nose with huff of irritation he does not quite understand. Why is that this man's very presence is suddenly so profoundly vexing to his psyche in this manner?

"General," the other man greets him as he approaches.

"Senator," Hux says with a short nod of acknowledgment.

"I trust you slept well?"

The dark silk of Ren's voice is roughened with congestion, deeper and more resonant than its usual timbre and Hux resists the urge to fist his gloved hand.

"I did," Hux lies.

Ren tips his head to one side with the slightest hint of movement, a micro-expression that means nothing to most, but Hux has begun to place as a signal for what Ren does not say. Somehow, this man either hears the falsity in Hux's words or is far more versed in reading others than Hux could have imagined.

"I must apologize for my . . . inability to control my surroundings last night," Ren says, expression melding from assessing to rueful. "I have since rectified it."

"You mean to say that you actually deigned to take something for that nonsense of yours?" Hux feigns surprise and the senator chuckles.

"Something like that, yes," he says. "I thought that perhaps we might try our discussion again, if you are not attending to other matters?"

"Perhaps somewhere without so much decorative warfare with the potential for sudden projection?" Hux suggests.

One dark eyebrow arches high and the side of the senator's generous mouth curves into a noticeable smirk. "Are you having at laugh at expense of my condition, General?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Hux says.

"Well." Ren steps closer, a hand closing over Hux's shoulder in a gesture that is strangely intimate, an unexpected invasion of personal space. "Meet me in half an hour. Two halls over, last set of doors on the left." The hand slides away as quickly as it clasps him and the senator brushes past him with a swish of fabric, the heels of his boots clicking upon the tile.

Hux nods but says nothing as the other man passes, his steps growing fainter until he rounds the corner of the hall. A violent, unrestrained pair of sneezes echo harshly through the corridors and Hux takes a now-instinctive step towards the wall, away from the nearest ornate vase, which neither trembles nor threatens to topple. Pictures upon the wall remain as they are and no sounds of destruction trail in the wake of Ren's wretched sneezing.

Strange. The man sounds as if he has worsened, yet the objects around him remain at rest, or least as far as Hux can tell. And much to his annoyance, he finds that more worrying than reassuring.

He runs a hand over the precision of his own precisely combed hair more out of habit than concern for displacement. Why would he so much as have a care for this man's well-being? It is a mission, a borderline chore. Nothing of any consequence.

A slight wince tenses his shoulders as another echo of Ren's apparent misery reaches his ears, even from the distance of what must be at least two halls away. The man sounds as if he should be in bed, not conducting diplomatic discourse. Not as if Hux himself would not do the exact same thing. Far be it for the general to let a mundane thing such as illness derail his duty.

_But still . . ._

"Idiot," Hux mutters.

It is unclear if he directs the word at himself or to the man that had the audacity to enter his thoughts unbidden.

 

* * *

 

The kitchen is not easy to find. Ren's estate is mass of confusing hallways and false entrances, a clever design if one is unfamiliar with one's surroundings. Hux relies on instinct and a keen sense of direction, half-surprising the busy stuff who have already set about preparations for the evening's meal.

"Ah, General," the rotund chef that calls himself "Brighton" greets him.  "Curious for a bit of chocolate, perhaps?"

Hux wrinkles his nose. "No," he says. "I've come for some tea. Might I ask what you have?"

"Tea, you say?" Brighton rubs his triple chin and makes a jaunty trot towards one of the larger pantries. "I suppose I had best simply allow you to have a look for yourself. Choose whatever you like, of course. The senator has quite an extensive collection."

"Extensive" was an understatement. At least ten shelves of various containers line the pantry, each preserved in its own in either metal or glass, arranged by color and size.

Corellian green. Naboo blackroot. Discs of the tender hearts of aubergine vines from Dantooine. And silver-throated moon lilies from Arkanis.

"By the stars," Hux murmurs under his breath.

After taking a moment to narrow down what will be needed, he gathers the containers himself, mixes the proper proportions into a small bowl, and borrows a tea infuser from the drawer that contains well over a hundred such things. Balls, squares, triangles, clever animals shapes. Where had Ren amassed such a collection of oddities?

"Interesting choices," Brighton says as Hux waits for the kettle to come to a boil. "Has the atmosphere here become bothersome to you, then?"

Hux opens to his mouth to speak, to inform that man that the tea isn't for such purposes, but instead manages to keep his voice neutral, his answer bland. "Something such as that, yes."

"Ah," Brighton says. "I see. Well, I shall leave you to it, then. If you have need of anything else, simply ask."

_A bit less pandering to his every whim might be preferable._

"Thank you," Hux manages.

He allows the tea to steep for exactly ten minutes before taking the time to rinse out the infuser, dry it, and put it back in its proper place, his exit swift so as to not be forced into any more social pleasantries.

Two halls over, last door on the left. He pauses, knocks briskly upon the door.

"Come in, General."

Ren's voice. A soft, muffled cough. Hux huffs a sigh and rolls his eyes skyward as if the very thought of entering the room is insufferable. But he grasps the handle of the door just the same.

The room is smaller than he expected, not lined with the lavish accommodations of a proper study, but is rather sparse. A single bookshelf at one end, a couple of chairs at the other, and a small square of a table in its center, one chair on either side.

And Ren.

The senator faces the door, documents spread before him in a fan of paper, looking for all the world as if he is very picture of political repose with those large hands of his neatly folded upon the table, neutral but attentive expression etched to perfection upon those curiously alluring features of his.

Hux might have believed it had it not been for his quiet, albeit subtle sniffling coupled with his increasingly bleary gaze.

He stalks over to the edge of the table, sets the tea beside Ren's nearest hand, and moves to seat himself across from the other man with a prim straightening of his spine.

The senator's gaze flicks to the mug. "What's this?"

"For your nonsense," Hux says.

Ren eyes the mug for a moment before sliding his gaze to Hux, dark eyes regarding him with a slow blink. " _You_ . . . made this."

"Yes, _I_ made it," Hux says as if exasperated. "Surely you are not astounded by my ability to make a cup of tea, Ren."

Slender fingers grasp the handle of the mug and the senator tips it to his lips for a careful, but dedicated sip. And then a second.

"It's quite good," he says. "Delicate yet bold." He sets the mug down and assess Hux with a tilt of his head. "Thank you."

"Well . . . " Hux waves a hand. "Clearly you are in need of it."

One dark eyebrow arched. "Am I?"

The teasing curve of Ren's lip falters as his expression collapses into something helpless, sending him grappling for a handkerchief that he manages to pull from his pocket in barely enough time to muffle a shoulder-shuddering sneeze. And then another. A pause. A gasping hitch of breath. And another.

Hux manages a quick, furtive glance at the bookshelf as well as the pictures upon the wall, relieved that neither books nor frames have seen fit to hurl themselves across the room.

"Excuse me," Ren says with a sigh, the hand that holds the handkerchief dropping into his lap.

"Great galaxy, Ren. You sound positively wretched," Hux says with a slight curl of his lip. "You do realize our conversation can wait until you are better able to focus."

"Unfortunately, it cannot," the senator says. "If I am to bring this before the other representatives in a timely fashion that will ensure its passing, it must be discussed this evening in preparation for a . . . .." He presses a knuckled finger to one side of his nose with a cringe before managing to tame whatever plagues him into a mere sniffle. " . . . meeting. That being said, it is important that we clarify the intent of the First Order in conjunction with the willingness of my people to oblige your organization."

Hux points a gloved finger towards the mug and Ren takes the cue with a somewhat weary smile, sipping the still-hot liquid.

"Very well," Hux agrees with a wave of his hand. "Tell me of your political trifles."

Illness or not, Ren is suddenly all business, his words brisk and to the point as he passes Hux paper after paper, tapping highlighted portions, explaining added notes, and clarifying his position on the chaos that is ever-shifting unity of the galactic order. The senator is decisive and thorough, listening with acute interest when Hux speaks, his gaze assessing and keen despite his condition.

There is no arguing, no confrontation, yet Ren acquiesces to nothing, but rather makes note of Hux's objections or agreement, his own position on the matter firmly neutral.

Well. How fair of him. How very clever.

The shy, unkempt boy hiding behind his mother's skirts no longer resides in this man, nor does the gangly teenager whose prominent features seemed to overwhelm his face.

He remembers the assertion of young Ben Solo, after Hux had seen fit to trounce him in an unfair bout of hand-to-hand combat that left the youth bruised and bleeding, near to tears.

_One day, I'll be bigger than you, Brendol Hux. And way more important._

Ah, how he had sneered at the pretentious little brat, the sniveling, soft-hearted child that couldn't control his emotions.

_And now . . ._

"General," Ren says and Hux snaps out of his revelry with a blink.

"Yes?" he says.

"Do you have anything further to add?"

Hux shakes his head. "No. I believe we have covered all that can be considered up to this point. I shall present your questions to the Commandant for clarification, as I cannot answer them myself."

He watches as Ren takes up the tea, draining the last of it from his cup and rising to his feet. "Then our business is finished for the time being. Might I call upon you later should I need---"

The senator pauses as if he has lost himself mid-thought and one fair hand fumbles for the edge of the table.

_Oh, by all the stars in the sky . . ._

Hux is on his feet before he can command himself otherwise, stepping around the chair and gripping Ren's upper arm to steady him.

"I'm fine," Ren insists.

"You most certainly are _not_ 'fine,' Ren." The arm within his grasp flexes as the senator struggles to convey the facade of normalcy and Hux shifts his weight so that his arm slips to encircle Ren's waist. Even through the man's abundance of clothing, Hux can feel the heat that radiates from his body. "Great galaxy, you are burning with fever."

_You imbecile._

"It is nothing," Ren says.

"I haven't any patience for your nonsense," Hux grunts. "And I do not believe myself capable of carrying a man of your size, so I suggest you allow me to escort you before you collapse."

"I am not going to--"

"Blast it all, Ren." Hux tightens his hold. "Humor me, then."

The senator's posture relaxes just a touch, his arm draping Hux's shoulders. Fingers splay and curve over the top of his arm and Hux is suddenly all-too-aware of the impressive span of Ren's palm in contrast to the slightness of his own frame.

"I remember your father saying such things," Ren muses as Hux gathers the papers with his free hand and stacks them accordingly.

"What such things?" Hux hands the documents off to the senator, who fans them apart with an idle flick of his wrist.

A smile curves his mouth, a tired rendition of the gesture at best, but still fraught with amusement. "Great galaxy."

Just how Ren seems to possess such an odd memory for things of this nature is as baffling as it is irritating and Hux resists the urge to sneer. "Yes, well. One does tend to invest themselves in some parental habits on an unconscious level, I suppose." The other man turns his head and coughs into the crook of his elbow, his body shuddering with the effort to constrain it and Hux huffs a sigh. "Well, come on then, Ren. Before I am forced to drag your wretched carcass down this hall."

To his relief, the senator does not argue, but rather allows himself to be led through the corridors back to his quarters where the ever-present guards open the double doors without so much as a blink. Perhaps Ren knows nothing of militant function and order, but someone has seen to it that the guards and aides who serve him are well-trained and versed in the art of cordial discipline. If nothing else about Ren's garish estate pleased him, this display does.

Despite Ren's protests that he can manage on his own from this point, Hux escorts him to his bedside, stooping so that he can ease the feverish man onto the mattress.

"I do not suppose that you will call for a medic," Hux remarks.

"My constitution does not support much of what they would recommend," Ren says.

Hux wrinkles his nose. "What does that even mean? Surely there is something."

"Not really." Ren pinches the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger and winces. "My metabolic makeup isn't the same as yours, General. The dosage required to bring me any sort of relief will do more harm than good in the end." He arches an eyebrow at the fair-haired general. "Even your attempt at dosing me with that Corellian redroot has done very little."

Hux blinks. The subtle flavor of the root was often missed by even the most refined of palates, especially when blended with other herbs. How in the blazes had Ren managed to pick it out?

"I only wished to bring you some relief from that incessant sneezing of yours," Hux says.

Ren pats his wrist and Hux realizes that their fingers are twined in a loose tangle of digits, as if the inclination to do so is a natural extension of their exchange.

"Very kind of you," Ren says. A slight hint of a smirk edges his mouth. "Or perhaps you were a bit more concerned for what objects you might have to dodge, should I continue?"

"Hmn," Hux grunts. "Given what happened to your sculpture last night, surely you can understand my apprehension."

Much to Hux's relief, it is Ren that withdraws his grip, freeing Hux's fingers with a slip of his hand.

"My apologies for that," Ren says as he dabs at the corner of his nose with the handkerchief. "My abilities are sometimes a bit . . . unpredictable, if I am unwell. But I am capable of reconciling it."

As if to prove his point, the senator muffles a frame-shuddering sneeze into the cloth, but the only movement is the tremble of the mattress beneath Hux's seated posture.

Hux side-eyes him. "You had best not be contagious."

A soft cough. A quiet sniffle. "If that is truly your concern, why do you stay?"

A fair question and one that the general cannot adequately answer, not for himself or for the man half-sprawled upon the bed in elegant disarray.

Hux passes a gloved hand over the neat perfection of his hair. "I do not know," he says at last. "But perhaps I should leave you to rest, then."

Fingers close over his wrist as he moves to rise. "If you chose to stay, I would not object."

The general hesitates, considers at least a dozen reasons why this is not a wise idea, contemplates the implications of each and prioritizes them within his mind.

Ren's fingers slip to grasp the tips of his own, his thumb sliding over the tops of Hux's knuckles and the results of his analysis fade upon his tongue.

"Alright," the general says.

"How is the Commandant?" Ren asks.

"As he always is, I suppose," Hux replies. "Striving for order. Demanding discipline. It is what he does best."

The compassion that softens Ren's gaze is more than Hux can tolerate and he averts his stare to the collection of swords mounted upon the wall. Why should Ren pity him over such a trivial thing? It isn't as if it comes as a shock.

"And that scoundrel that sired you? How is he?" Hux asks at last.

"Trouble as usual," Ren says. He gestures to the rack of swords with one hand. "The one with the bejeweled hilt is his latest conquest. I haven't the faintest idea where he acquired it nor if the methods he employed to do so were legal or not."

A soft snort escapes the general. "You say this as if you do not do such things yourself."

"Ah," the senator says. "But I do not get caught."

Ren's laugh trickles into a cough and Hux pulls the leather from his fingers, trailing his ungloved hand through Ren's sweat-dampened hair before he can order himself to do otherwise.

"Surely there is something you can take," Hux tries again.

"No," Ren says. His eyes flutter closed beneath the idle ministrations of Hux's fingers. "But that feels lovely."

"Hmn," Hux muses as he continues to thread the silken strands between his fingers. "I always thought you might be part hound. And where is your canine shadow at this hour?"

"Kitchen," Ren says. "It is time for his afternoon meal." His hand comes to rest atop Hux's free wrist. "I have a bit of reconnaissance scheduled for tomorrow evening, but I am in need of accompaniment. Would you care to have a bit of fun, General?"

"That depends on what you mean by 'fun,' Senator," Hux says with an arch of one eyebrow. "And here I thought you did not require protection."

"I do not," Ren says. "But I do, however, require a companion to gain entrance to this establishment in order to do the proper spy work and I feel certain the First Order would benefit from this venture as well." The fingers squeeze his wrist with a teasing grip. "Perhaps even a less formal dinner as well?"

"I suppose I could see to it that you do not get yourself into trouble," Hux says. "But only if you are well enough for such things. I won't have you passing out in the streets, Ren."

"Oh, I assure you that I will be quite fine by then," Ren says.

As if he amused. As if he knows something Hux does not. _Hmmn, well . . ._

"I shall have to see that for myself," Hux says.

Fingers twine with his own and for a moment, Ren says nothing, the slightest hint of a smile quirking his mouth as his eyes drift shut once more.

"If you keep petting me in this fashion, I will surely fall asleep mid-conversation," Ren says.

The motion of Hux's hand does not cease. "That would be the idea, you feverish dolt."

"You have always been so very charming," Ren murmurs. The words trail into a soft slur of sound and the senator sighs.

The fingers that intersperse with his own slacken but do not disengage. The shadows upon the floor grow long and thin before Ren's canine counterpart appears from the corner of the room under the guise of a pair of glowing green orbs as the hound himself slinks into view.

The dog nudges his boot and Hux blinks. He has not seen the animal move across the room. Stars, he will never get used to such a thing.

"See to it that he stays here," Hux says to the dog.

The animal hops onto the bed with a strange grace that is more feline that dog and settles himself beside the senator, who rolls onto his side to bury his face in the ruff of Nexus's furry neck.

The hand slides away and the leather of his glove cools rapidly without the heat of Ren's fingers.

 

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's leather. And dancing. And alcohol. Oh yes, and drug dealers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I am stupidly proud of the next few parts. I've been dying to share them for over a month now! I seriously hope you guys enjoy what's to come because it's gonna be a wild ride . . .

"I will _not_ wear this, Ren," Hux's prim, accented voice calls from the lavatory.

Kylo lounges within the nearest chair, one leather-clad leg hanging over the nearest arm, the rest of him sprawled in a boneless drape of limbs. "You have to look the part, General."

"And what part is that, exactly?"

Hux's disgust is nearly palpable. A chuckle rumbles from Kylo's throat.

"It can't be that bad," Kylo says. "Come out of there and let me see."

"I will not," Hux insists.

"Alright." Kylo swings his leg back in the opposite direction with a creak of leather. "Then I will come and see for myself."

"Do not _dare!"_

Ignoring the hissing snarl of an order, the senator rises to his feet and saunters into the bathroom, bypassing the lock with a wave of his hand.

Hux stands with his arms behind his back, facing the wall, Pants a more modest rendition of Kylo's own, the supple leather clinging to his hips in a way that causes the senator to tilt his head with an appreciative arch of one eyebrow.

_Well, well._

"Turn around," Kylo says with a flitting of his fingers that Hux cannot see, as if doing so will encourage the motion.

The other man's slender shoulders stiffen, hands falling to his sides with a clench of fists as he executes a sharp turn, chin lifted in utter defiance of what he clearly considers a most undignified ordeal.

The senator, of course, would beg to differ. His associates have done well in the choosing of clothing for the slim general. The shirt is of a plain, black fabric mottled with hues of grey, clingy but not to the point of discomfort. Grommeted laces run the length of his sides, trimmed in leather that matches his pants, but is the sleeve detail of the shirt that Kylo finds most captivating. Similar to the sides in construction, but yet with a generous peek of skin, the leather-embossed grommets boast a thinner lace, revealing flashes of Hux's pale skin midway down his arm. A section of leather wraps his elbow and the grommet work continues beneath it, as if tying the sleeves of the shirt together with a criss-crossing of lace work, the forearm lacings matching those of the upper arm. The sleeves end leather that tapers to a point just over the top of Hux's hands, slit from thumb to wrist to allow ease of movement.

Kylo does not miss the hint of skin from Hux's stomach as he lifts a hand to rake his fingers through hair, his look of utter distaste etching lines of displeasure within his forehead.

"Ooh," Kylo begins with a slow tilt of his head. "You look quite stunning, General."

"Yes, well . . . " Hux brushes at the crease in the leather of his pants as if to straighten them. "You would think as much." He sweeps a hand in an indicative motion of Kylo's own attire. "Just look at yourself."

Pretending to humor the man, Kylo glances over his shoulder and turns to the face the mirror as if assessing himself for the first time. Boots that climb just over his knees hug the leather of his pants, an array of buckles gracing the sides. The pants themselves lace as Hux's shirt does, allowing for a tiny tease of bare skin along each leg. The star of the ensemble is the vest-surcoat hybrid, a sleeveless piece with a high, open collar and a deep neckline interspersed with mesh to form a sheer cover that grants more hints of fair skin beneath it. Several large, silver buttons edge the lapels, one side of the coat stopping hip-length, the other side an asymmetrical flap of fabric that drapes his side, tethered to the cloth by a section of loose, sparse lacing and ending at the top of his boot. Sleeves of buckled leather climb his arms from wrist to mid-bicep, unconnected to the rest of his clothing, showcasing the broadness of his shoulders.

Pieces of his hair are braided, binding his thick mane away from his eyes, the remainder hanging loose and soft to frame his jaw, the occasional small piece of silver dangling from the edges of a single braid near the side of ear.

He runs his hands down the sides of his pants, turns back to Hux with a saucy, dashing smile.

"So I have looked," he says.

The general crosses his arms over his chest with a scowl. "You revile me."

Kylo strolls towards him, boots clicking importantly upon the tile. "Do I?"

Hux averts his gaze with a huff.

How delightfully amusing.

"Well," Kylo begins. "I suggest you find something about my person that does not disgust you, as admittance to this establishment is granted to couples only."

_"What."_

The word is a flat sort of growl that seems to squeeze its way from between Hux's gritted teeth. Kylo barely manages to suppress a chuckle.

"The club, General. We must act as partners to enter it."

Hux eyes him as if he is a very audacious liar and Kylo cannot resist the giddy trickle of laughter that finds its way from his lips.

"You failed to mention this, Ren."

Kylo arches an eyebrow. "Is that a problem?" He steps closer, the buckles of his boots jingling. "It's just an act, after all. I know that you have no true interest in my company." He tilts his head, a sly smile curving one side of his mouth. "Do you?"

"Certainly not," Hux huffs.

Kylo trails a finger over the silk flowers in the vase nearest to Hux's body, smiling when the general side-steps the motion as if it is meant for him. "Then there should be no problem."

"None," Hux grunts.

Kylo retreats, glancing over his shoulder at the other man. "I shall see you outside, then."

 

* * *

 

 

Senator Ren does not allow one of his aides to drive the speeder. Instead, he pilots the aircraft himself, easing through the congestion of air traffic with a deft skill that Hux grudgingly admires.

Among other things.

The senator is irritatingly proficient in most matters, an excellent swordsman, a skilled negotiator, an eloquent speaker, a savvy tactical mind. And of course, the man himself is quite easy to look at. Ren's face does not boast a perfection of symmetry, nor does he possess the pert, generic pleasantry of traditional male attractiveness. No, Ren's features are prominent, his mouth a bit too wide, lips generous in both curvature and volume, his nose the angular focal point of his profile, a scattering of dark markings upon his fair skin. His eyes are neither brown nor hazel, but something in between, fiercely intelligent and assessing, his gaze somehow indifferent and piercing at once, his hair the proverbial crowning glory to it all, a lush, layered darkness that brushes the tops of shoulders nearly twice the span of Hux's own.

The man is a giant, his hands enormous upon the steering mechanism, his long legs stretching out before him. Hux averts his gaze, pretends to pay close attention to the whizzing of speeders and other aircraft, feigning interest in the lush scenery that lies just beyond the city limits.

"Ghen Fulcrit is one of the most covert spice dealers in the galaxy," Ren is saying as he pilots the ship towards a cluster of buildings. "We were hoping that his miscreants would not deign to set up shop here, but our intel suggests otherwise."

Hux rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. I have heard much of Fulcrit and his ilk. Such corruption has been allowed to fester for far too long."

"Which is why I need you." Ren flashes him a disarming smile and Hux arches one fair eyebrow.

"Me?" he repeats.

"Of course," Ren says as he pulls the speeder into lot filled with small craft. "You are one of the greatest strategically minds in the galaxy, General. I am grateful for your assistance."

Ego-stroking foolery. Hux conceals the small quirk of a smile that threatens his lips despite it.

Ren exits the speeder with a swish of fabric and walks around to the opposite side where Hux now stands, extending his hand, palm up.

Hux eyes the proffered hand with a slight look of distaste. "I take you have rid yourself of that cold of yours by now?"

The senator's eyebrow arches high. "Are you concerned for my health or yours, General?"

"Obviously mine," Hux huffs.

Not to mention the potential dangers Ren's ridiculous bouts of sneezing had caused over the past few days. When Hux had been instructed by the Commandant to "keep his head in place" during this mission, he couldn't have realized just how literal such a turn of phrase could have possibly become.

"I am much better," Ren says. "Although I am not contagious, if that is your worry. This particular illness is exclusive to Force-users, so this should ease your concerns."

"Not entirely," Hux muttered. But after a moment's hesitation, he slips a reluctant hand into Ren's grasp just same.

Fingers lace between his own with a slow, almost intimate grip and Hux resists the urge to snatch his hand away.

"Is this level of intimacy truly necessary?" he asks as Ren leads him towards a building comprised of blue transparisteel and backlit sin. "If the requirement for this . . . establishment . . . is simply that two enter, I fail to why I must--"

Ren halts, turns to face him. "It is necessary," he says. "You shall have to trust me when I say that it is of the utmost importance that we not present as strangers, but rather as partners. To act otherwise could have consequences more dire than I care to articulate." Ren tilts his head. "Are you certain you wish to continue?"

"Of course I do," Hux says with a sneer. "I am perfectly capable of doing whatever it is that you require."

Ren arches an eyebrow. "I certainly hope so."

What cryptic nonsense! Still, the general keeps further inquiries to himself, allowing Ren to lead and focusing on his surroundings, noting the placement of buildings in relation to other landmarks, the proximity of landscaped trees and sidewalks, the flow of foot traffic and the miasma of cooking foodstuffs drifting from the carts that reside on nearly every corner.

City life is vibrant here, hurried and swift of tempo, each being moving with purpose in their chosen direction with little attention paid to anything else. It is a dangerous focus, one that seems cultivated, if not a bit contrived, some dressed in finery and others in outrageous fashion pieces that are flash over function.

Notice me, but forget. Admire me, but look away. A craven need for validation and the desperation of fleeting social fulfillment.

Hux wrinkles his nose with undisguised repugnance, nearly stumbling when Ren stops his pace.

"Be on your guard, General," the senator says. "They watch you, just as you watch them."

Hux starts to inform the other man that he is well-versed in this particular facet of reconnaissance and needn't take instruction from a politician, but Ren's arm is suddenly draped around his shoulders, his hand gripping Hux's arm in a gesture that appears intimate, but is fraught with warning.

"Here we are." Ren's dark voice vibrates through him. "Remember, we must act as lovers do. Our connection must appear effortless and convincing."

Against what is possibly his better judgment, Hux slips an arm around the other man's torso in response, noting with no small degree of captivation the way in which Ren's broad chest does not narrow to a tiny waist, but stays thick and muscular. Through the fabric of his asymmetrical vest-like coat, Ren's body is carved from well-honed muscle, lean and defined.

This is a man who is no mere politician, who has not grown soft through pampering and luxury, who hasn't a well-tuned thought in his head. The shrewdness of his gaze is a calculating thing, the lightsaber hidden by the flap of fabric at his side a well-kept secret, the knives in his boots disguised as fashionable glints of silver with a lethal purpose.

He matches his stride to the slink of Ren's hips, times his steps so that they walk together at comfortable pace that seems natural and at ease. The fingers that rest upon his shoulder play across his collarbone with a teasing stroke and Hux commands himself not to startle, choosing instead to squeeze Ren's hip in return, a gesture which rends a warm chuckle from the senator as they approach the doors.

"We must stay close to each other at all times," Ren says. "And, General?"

Hux casts him an arch of one eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I hope you can hold your liquor."

 

* * *

 

 

The general has seen death. He has witnessed pestilence, famine, and extreme acts of violence. He had watched mass assassinations and executions. Gore and blood are no strangers to him.

But he has never witnessed anything such as this carnal monstrosity of this alleged "club." Black meteor marble that cost more than the entire contents of the Finalizer tiles the floor, veins of precious silver moonstone threading throughout it. What is not composed of marble is a chrome-like durasteel only attainable through a meticulous process of cooling and folding techniques found in the finest weaponry, but now used here as a garish display of wealth. Tones of blue, hot pink, and purple sweep the darkness in a spectrum of flashing light fit for a seizure as bodies writhe and contort in a haze of alcohol induced frenzy, the scent of lustful avarice hanging heavy in air as if it is a tangible thing.

To his credit, Hux does not stare, but rather regards the room with a sort of bland neutrality cultivated through years of training.

Ren's hand slides to the small of his back, dangerously lower, the edges of his fingers toying with the waistband of Hux's leather pants in a gesture that is shockingly intimate and Hux pinches his side in a warning the senator does not heed.

"A drink?" Ren rumbles in his ear. "Perhaps it will relax you."

"I _am_ relaxed," Hux grits through a clench of teeth, drawing a lilt of laughter from his companion.

"Of course you are." Ren nods to the bartender, a blue-skinned Chiss male with elaborate golden markings tattooed upon his body. "Cobalt Clarity," he says to the man. "One for each of us."

The Chiss slides a hand over Ren's slender fingers in a salacious, suggestive way that makes Hux's skin crawl.

"Coming right up, love," he purrs.

Hux restrains an internal gag.

The Chiss is adept with his movements, slicing sapphire moonfruit into delicate slivers with swift precision and making a show of wedging them in a floral-like pattern along the rims of two glasses, both filled with a shockingly bright blue liquor that Hux cannot place.

"There you are, my dears," the bartender says as he slides the glasses towards each of them. "Enjoy yourselves."

Lurid. Invitationally sexual. Hux cups his hand beneath the glass where the stem meets the bowl of it and glances up to find a sliver of moonfruit dangling just before his lips. From Ren's fingers.

"Are you mad?" he hisses.

Ren's gaze is deceptively playful to the onlooker, but beneath the dark lashes is a warning of reprimand that Hux reads more keenly than any gesture could manage. Letting out a slow breath through his nose, he makes a show of leaning forward, opening his mouth with a slow parting of lips, allowing expectation to show upon his expression.

Fingers slip between his lips, dropping the delicate sliver of fruit flesh upon his tongue and he closes his mouth over Ren's fingers, noting with some degree of satisfaction the curious arch of the senator's eyebrow, as if he is impressed or amused. Perhaps both.

He samples his own alcoholic concoction, a pleasant burst of sweetness with a hint of bitter aromatics to cut the cloying bite of moonfruit. A well-done balance.

"There," Ren says with flick of his gaze towards the wall.

Hux manages a discreet glace that he masks as a scan of the light fixtures under the guise of being transfixed. The oafish human that is the target of Ren's casual gesture is dressed in garish clothing, an orange leather that does not suit his ruddy complexion, nor his rotund stature which threatens to burst the garment at the seams, despite its efforts to contain his mass. Hints of hairy flesh peek from the collar as well as the waistband of the matching horror of pants that lace up in inappropriate places, broadcasting that the man is clearly without undergarments. At his side is a delicate Twi'lek, the green contrast of her skin a horrid counterpoint to the man's atrocious taste in fashion. It reminds Hux very much of the unpalatable combination of vegetables so often served within the Finalizer's cafeteria.

"Fulcrit's finest," Ren says.

Hux does not restrain his sneer. _"Really?"_

"Really."

Ren's fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt as he leans closer, nuzzling Hux's ear. "Let us speak to him, shall we?"

Hux represses a shudder, not at the idea of speaking to such a man, but rather at the tip of Ren's rather impressive nose as it rubs the shell of his ear. Great galaxy.

"Surely he knows who you are, Ren. What makes you so certain he will speak to you?"

More nuzzling. A low purr. "He is intoxicated, bold. His mind is weak."

Hux stiffens. "And how would you know such things?" A small gasp escapes him as Ren's tongue flicks his neck with faintest brush of heat. "And can you not refrain from such tactics when speaking to me?"

"Why?" Ren's laugh is a roll of darkness that sends erotic static through his mind. "Am I so distracting to you, General?"

_Great bastard._

Another chuckle. "Am I? "

Hux straightens his posture in an attempt to put a subtle distance between himself and the senator. "I did not say anything," he says.

Or had he spoken aloud without realizing it?

"As for how I know our friend's intent . . . " Ren sits back with a casual lean, sipping his drink for a moment. "I read his thoughts."

Hux's hand freeze midway to his own glass. "You . . . _what?"_

"I read his thoughts," Ren repeats. As if such a thing casual, conversational knowledge, a simple everyday fact.

_Oh. Oh no . . ._

"Oh yes," Ren says.

"How dare you pry into my mind!" Hux hisses.

Ren casts him cool stare. "I did not such thing. Your reaction was evident in your expression. And here I thought you to be better trained."

Before Hux can cast his retort, Ren grasps his wrist, pulling him from the high-backed barstool and to his feet.

"Come," Ren says. "Let us see what wonders our stout friend might be peddling this evening."

Leaving his unfinished drink to languish upon the bar, Hux half-stumbles after Ren, nearly forgetting himself in the process. _A mind-reader. A telepathic voyeur._ Stars, had the man been privy to his thoughts all this time? Every moment of every day? What had he extracted? How would he --

"Watch him," Ren says. "Hear what he does and does not say."

 

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *NSFW* The senator and the general are forced into a potentially lethal game of alcohol-infused roulette with unexpected consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the part I've been dying to post! The bathroom scene was written entirely to "Risingson" by Massive Attack, which is perfection. I highly suggest giving it a listen!

Kylo makes his way through the crowd with ease, the sea of bodies parting in his wake, his energetic signature commanding it to be so. The general pads along beside him, his own energy a static flare of subtleties that he strives to control, but succeeds only in further tangling.

_Hmmm. Well._

It was not often that the senator discusses the level of his Force abilities with others. Few know of his ability to penetrate the mental facade of any being, much less just how well he could extract information from them or coerce them into doing as he pleases. Fear is a fine motivator, but not his ruling weapon of choice. A dangerous, healthy level of respect is far better. Let the citizens wonder about the extent of his Force training, just as they wonder about many other things concerning his person.

"He will remember you after you speak," Hux says. "Perhaps this is unwise."

"Not if I wipe his mind," Kylo replies.

Hux nearly stumbles and Kylo tugs his wrist with a smile.

"You cannot simply wipe your presence from the thoughts of every being in this room!" Hux insists.

_Can you?_

The senator hears the words as clearly as if they were spoken, no mind-reading ability needed.

"That is unnecessary," Kylo says. "Most are far too intoxicated to remember their own names, much less mine. Can you not sense it? One need only to look at them to ascertain their state."

Hux merely glares, as if he cannot believe that he has somehow allowed himself to become embroiled in such a mess, such an absurd tangle of nonsense. It almost makes the senator toss his head back with laughter. What in the galaxy had the Commandant told Hux to expect from him? That the senator was some delicate, doddering fool of a political farce with no mind of his own, easily controlled and manipulated by the whims of the new galactic order?

"What is so blasted amusing, Ren?" Hux snarls.

"Nothing, General," Kylo says. "Nothing at all."

Hux's rigid silence is his only answer.

Kylo approaches the hulking beast of a man with an easy stride, waits until his hair-infested target loses interest in pawing at the pert chest of the female at his side, and slides a sloe-eyed stare in Kylo's direction, as if he is a bothersome creature interrupting an interlude with a drug-marinated prey.

It takes mere seconds for Kylo's mind to connect with that of his adversary, for his own thought to coalesce and weave within the tangle drudgery of sluggish images and phrases.

"Hytel Gullot," Kylo says, siphoning the man's name with ease from his mind. "I was told I could find you here."

He releases the reigns of the man's mind enough to allow him to answer of his own volition.

"I'm busy, pretty boy," Gullot grunts, he voice slathered with a combination of drunken boredom and a neck too thick for proper speech. "Find someone else."

Kylo tilts his head. "Oh, I don't think you want me to do that. Fulcrit would be most displeased to hear that you had turned me away."

The hand still roving over the Twi'lek's chest comes to an abrupt halt. "Ghen sent you?"

A slight wave of his hand, as if in confirmation, and Kylo nods with a most congenial smile. "Ghen sent me."

Gullot nods towards the nearest tapestry-upholstered chair. "Sit."

Kylo tugs at Hux's wrist and a they exchange a visual battle of wills before Kylo sprawls himself with lazy elegance within the chair's confines, pulling Hux into his lap with a little help from the Force. The other man's eyes widen and his nostrils flare with barest hint of indignation, and Kylo shifts his weight so that Hux's prim posture is compromised into the need to slip an arm around Kylo's neck so that he does not slide onto the floor.

"Make it quick," Gullot slurs. "I ain't got time for fancy whims, got it?"

"Stardust," Kylo says.

The dealer's bushy eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. "Hard to find in these parts, boy."

 _"Boy."_ _How insulting._

"Have you got it or not?" Kylo asks.

"Depends," Gullot says with a wry, thin-lipped smirk that showcases the edges of teeth in desperate need of dental reconstruction. "How much you got for it?"

The senator's patience is wearing as thin as the clothing of Gullot's scantily clad companion and he raises a hand in concert with his speech, as if simply gesticulating for emphasis.

"All of it," Kylo says.

Gullot's hand delves into the satchel that swings from his hips, meaty fingers digging deep before producing a black pouch. "All of it."

Kylo holds out a prompting hand and the man drops the pouch into his palm with blithe obedience. "I have paid you well," he says.

"Paid me well," Gullot mumbles.

He hands the pouch to Hux and leans forward, hand outstretched.

_Fulcrit's ship. A desolate docking bay. Station 2941. Coordinates G-47 sub 9, 23 parsecs from the Outer Rim. A black ocean. A silver sky. A stack of credits in Gullot's meaty hand._

"We thank you for your time," Kylo says as he nudges Hux to his feet.

"My time," Gullot mutters.

And now, the more pressing matter, the one that shall ensure Gullot's silence.  He waves a hand before dealer's face and utters a single word.

"Forget."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Back at the bar, Hux commands his hands to stillness, refuses to dig his fingers into his palms.

No one had warned him of keeping his thoughts to himself, of keeping Ren out of his own mind. How much did the man know? Could he coerce him just as easily, convince the General to sign away the rights of the entire First Order with a charming smile and simple gesture of those elegant fingers?

"You seem perturbed," Ren observes.

The other man leans against the bar, long legs stretched out before him.

Hux grimaces. "One might say that."

"It isn't as if I've done such things to you against your will," Ren says, as if the suggestion is an insult to him.

"And how would I know if you had?" Hux half-growls.

"Oh, you would know," Ren says in that cryptic, dismissive way of his that sets Hux's teeth on edge. He runs a hand over one of the smaller braids that dangles near his ear, twined in thin silver wire. "Don't you trust me, General?"

_About as far as I can toss your wretched carcass._

"You are a _politician_ ," Hux says, as if that answers the question.

Ren's dark eyes study him, assessing his posture, his expression, and Hux resists the urge to inform the other man that he is done with this rouse, that he has never been assigned such an outrageous task as this where he is expected to act as consort to some pandering political bureaucracy.

"Is that all that you believe me to be?" Ren asks.

As if the very thought is hurtful. Unjust. How ludicrous Ren is!

Hux heaves a sigh. "Listen, Ren--"

A heavy palm claps upon his shoulder and Hux moves to snatch it away before realizing that it does not belong to his elegant companion.

The being that now stands beside him is humanoid, a Zabrak from the looks of his tattooed red skin and profusion of horns protruding from his skull, which does nothing to undermine the finery of his suit, a bronze shimmersilk stitched in gold. Rare. Expensive. And usually sported by one type of individual.

"Why, Senator. What a surprise to see you here," the Zabrak says.  He gestures to Hux with fingers that sport black nails which have been filed to dangerous points.  "Who's your friend?"

"A pleasure to see you, Zex," Ren says smoothly.

But Ren does not answer the question, nor does he give any indication of having heard it, a rouse which which the Zabrak does not permit.

"You know the rules of this establishment," Zex says. "And you boys don't really look like you're having a good time to me." He frowns theatrically, the dark lines around his mouth drawing his expression into something that is not only dour, but sinister. "Lover's quarrel, is it? And here I didn't think the good senator subjected himself to such scandal." Zex eyes Hux up as if he is something to be consumed, a ration of prey. "A bit thin for a man your size."

"I beg your pardon ! " Hux says with a stiffening of shoulders.

"It's his first time here," Ren says as he nods to Hux. "You know how it is."

"Nervous, are you? Oh, well we can't have that," Zex says as he flags down the bartender. "Give them the Astral, Fylik. Make it black."

The green of Hux's kohl-lined eyes betray no fear or suspicion as he watched the bartender select a gold-trimmed bottle from beneath the bar.  During his time in the First Order, the general has consumed all manner of whisky and spirits, but mind-altering substances are not in his repertoire, nor does he wish to begin sampling them now. The mind of military man must be clear at all times, his thoughts his own and his actions tempered by them.  However, the Zabrak's slit-eyed gaze suggest that he will not take polite refusal for an answer.  

"You needn't waste your top shelf rare stock on me," Ren says. "After all--"

The cold steel of a blaster barrel pokes into Hux's ribs and the general flicks his gaze to Ren, who clearly has not missed the gesture.

"Oh," Zex says. "I insist."

A glance around the room reveals posted guards in every corner, firearms at the ready in discreet positioning and Hux curses himself for allowing his thoughts to wander towards Ren and away from the task at hand.  His own compact version of a blaster is wedged into his boot, a space he cannot reach from this angle and not one that he wishes to try for with Zex's own weapon pressed dangerously close to his vital organs.

"Well, go on then, boys." Zex's voice is congenial, even friendly as he slides two tall shots towards the center of the bar. "Drink up!"

The liquid contained within is a dark, iridescent purple with a sheen of blue, a swirl of silver drizzled in the center, glittering like . . .

"What's the matter, huh? Just a little absinthe between friends." The safety of the blaster is repealed with a click and the barrel scrapes his side. "Now, drink it."

_Stardust. Oh, great galaxy._

Ren plucks the shot from the bar and brings it to his lips, but the Zabrak shakes his head. "Oh no, Senator. This is the finest Astral in the galaxy and everybody knows that how that works. You do it together. Let's see how connected you two lovers really are."

Hux reaches for his own shot with a frown. What in the universe is this imbecile babbling about?

Zex nudges Hux's shoulder. "First time, Red? Well, isn't that sweet? Seeing as how your lover just poached that dust from Gullot, I figured you'd be a pro. That is, if you are connected as you should be. Take it they didn't scan your auras on the way in, did they? Have to get onto Takk about that machine." The Zabrak blinks in mock surprise at Hux's flat-line stare. "Oh, you mean lover boy here didn't tell you about the scan? Well, that's how we know to let you in. You see, Red, when two beings have a connection, it shows up in their energetic signature. You didn't think we'd just take your word for it, did ya?"

"And the drink?" Hux asks, tone deceptive in its calmness.

"Oh, that? Well, that's the real clencher, Red. Stardust on its own will just give you a little fake euphoria, but sprinkle that in a little Astral? It amplifies it. Brings out the pure in ya. The carnal. The primal. The stuff most folks keep locked away in their subconscious mind like prudish clergy. But if you've got the connection that you two so obviously have? Well, you might just have the best damn night of your life." Zex sighed, clapping Hux upon the shoulder with his free hand. "Of course, if you don't, it might unravel your mind and destroy it, but hey, no need to worry about that with ol' Senator Slick here. I'm sure he's as into you as you are to him." The yellow eyes narrowed. "Aren't you, Senator Fancy Pants?" The blaster barrel shoves itself into his neck before he can so much as blink. "Now, drink it. Together."

Ren's hand stretches towards his own in a prompting fashion and Hux slips his fingers into the other man's grasp, the seal of his hand a bracing warmth as Hux lifts the glass to his lips, green eyes locked with Ren's dark stare and tips the liquid into his mouth.  The drink itself is smoother than the finest Corellian whiskey, a radiant warmth upon his tongue that spreads down his throat, a sweet clarity that is both foreign and familiar at once. His eyes flutter closed, head tilting back, the ponderous thump of the music a blur of static in his ears.

Hux cracks an eyelid. Ren now stands before him in a haze of blue interspersed with gold, as if he has lost hold of corporeal form, his skin a pale backdrop for his dark clothing that no longer seems attached to his body.  A pulsing bliss creeps into his veins, as if his very blood is changing, replaced by liquid euphoria that rushes to every limb.  And Ren's smile is the most radiant sight he has ever witnessed, his own lips betraying him with a mirroring flash of teeth.

"Well." The Zabrak's voice near his ear. "I'll be a son of a bantha's ass."

The blaster withdraws and the Zabrak waves to his myriad of thugs and he nudges Hux towards Ren's body. "You boys have fun now."

A nasty, hollow laugh. The clapping of a hand upon his shoulder. And Hux all but staggers into Ren's embrace. He clutches at the high collar of Ren's sleeveless coat, and the other man jerks him closer.

"Dance with me," Ren says.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Music. Chaos. Hands upon his body. Everywhere. Nowhere. The floor beneath his feet a silver-flecked void, the lights upon the ceiling a galactic kaleidoscope.

The grinding of Ren's hips is not enough, the touch of his skin cannot quell the strange, sudden urges that grapple within him for supremacy. He requires more. Something he cannot voice. Something he cannot grasp.

The other man ushers him into the bathroom, slams the door shut.

Ren's hands upon his body, traveling the length of his sides with a ripple of heat, the small of his back connecting with the durasteel counter. Colors strobe through the slim panes of transparisteel and music bleeds a pulsating undulation that thrums through his entire being.

Hand grip his hips. The caress of Ren's heated breath tickles the hairs of his neck, prickling his skin to attention. Ren hoists him atop the counter, asserts himself between Hux's legs, drags his tongue down the exposed skin of Hux's throat.

Against his better judgment and perhaps even his will, Hux groans, fists a handful of Ren's absurdly flimsy shirt, wraps his legs around Ren's waist. His arms slide around Ren's neck, fingers delving into the thickness of his hair. It is like living silk upon his fingers, warm and soft to the touch. He manipulates the silver bands that hold the braids in place, pries them free of their intricately knotted placement, shoves his hand through the unbound darkness of it.

Teeth seize his ear, nipping, worrying the lobe. A low purr. A rumbling growl.

Hux cups the pale visage between his palms, drags his thumbs over the constellations of markings there, tracing unseen patterns. Ren's skin is starlight streaked with blue . . . red . . . purple . . . a shifting light and shadow.

Striking. Stunning. Beautiful beyond his ability to comprehend.

The senator clasps his wrists, captures his stare with eyes that appear blacker than space itself in the low light of the club. But Hux has studied those eyes more than he should have, has noticed the variants of honey and amber within them, the ever-so -slight hints of olive green. Has studied the shape of that sensual mouth that now curves into an appreciative, almost endeared smirk.

_Why, the audacity._

He cinches his body against Ren's own, capturing his mouth in a fervent kiss that belies every ounce of gentility he possesses. It is an urgent, demanding thing, a searching need that Ren reciprocates and Hux all but moans into his mouth, drawing the other man closer, raking his short nails over the broad expanse of Ren's shoulders, the carved musculature of his back.  Heat suffuses him, flushing his pale skin with color as he devours Ren's mouth, reveling in the softness of his lips, the decisive sensuality of Ren's response.

And the growing bulge in Ren's pants.

Hux runs a brazen hand over the leather, massages the hard length of the Senator through the supple material. His own body all but writhes when Ren rewards him with a shivering, breathy growl.  Another heated kiss, a breath-stealing exchange of lips and tongue.

"Have me," Hux slurs.

With a wave of his hand, Ren bolts the door shut. The tip of Ren's nose nuzzles the soft hairs near his temple, the heat of his breath tickling his skin.

"You are intoxicated beyond rational thought, General," Ren says. "Are you sure of your desires?"

Seams pop as Hux fists the mesh silk of Ren's shirt. "I am sure that I wish to have you inside of me _this instant._ "

Ren's breath catches, funneling out of his throat in a low purring sigh. Lips and tongues tangle. He grips Ren's bare shoulders, kneads the skin with his short nails, tugs the ties of Ren's leather pants free.

It is not entirely unexpected that nothing but Ren himself lies beneath the supple leather and the senator sucks in a hissing breath as Hux pries the length of him free from those pants and gives him a clumsy, commanding stroke.

Something flutters near the edges of his mind, a flicker, a flare, and the pupils of Ren's strobe-infused eyes dilate and widen.

"So, you _do_ want this. . ."

Hux nearly snorts at the absurdity of Ren's "observation," especially with the other man's growingly impressive erection half-squeezed between his fingers. _Stars, his fingers do not so much as meet . . ._

"Ren, if you do not have me, so help me--"

Hands grip his hips, jerking him from the counter only to bend him over it, peeling the leather from his hips, stripping his lower body bare to the knees. Fingers rove over his lower back, down his hips, over his backside. Gripping the hardness of him from behind. Stroking. Squeezing.

In the star-gilded mirror, his disheveled reflection stares back at him, flushed and in unrecognizable in the throes of anticipatory pleasure. But it is Ren that captivates him, the wild waves of his dark hair that frame his eccentric beauty, the way the smooth exterior of him gives way to something primal.  Oil-slickened fingers slide into the tight vice of his body and Hux struggles to ask the most unimportant question of just where Ren had acquired some manner of lubricant, but his tongue refuses to relinquish the words as Ren's fingers probe him.  Two fingers.  Three.  Hux groans aloud, an impatient and wanton sound that does not seem to belong to his own body.  A different hand slides into his hair, snapping his head back as Ren presses his advantage, the hand that teases him so impertinently retracting and replacing itself with a far more promising aspect of pleasure.  Ren takes his time, Hux's body eagerly accommodating the thickness of him, stretching him wide and taut, Ren's hips a rocking pulse that seems to mimic the throb of the bass, sending an echoing shock through Hux until a shudder begins to traverse his spine.

Ren bends over him, presses his body against Hux's back, sinks teeth into his shoulder, nips at his neck, slides the wet heat of his tongue along the shell of Hux's ear, filling him, possessing him, branding him through touch and taste.

The slickened hand reached for him one more, wraps around him and strokes with a decisive grip, as if Ren is somehow pulling the edges of orgasm to the surface from every point of contact in Hux's body and he shudders accordingly, a shameless groan bubbling from his throat. Is it the absinthe? The atmosphere? Ren's hands upon his body, somehow everywhere at once, yet clearly visible in the reflection of the mirror.

Heat knifes through his core and his moan bleeds into a panting vocalization as threads within him are drawn to a taut, quivering expectation that seems to roil through his entire being.

Ren's name slips from his lips. A whisper. A plea.

The threads fray and snap.

The thrust of Ren's hips becomes an urgent undulation and Hux all but claws at the durasteel counter, the weight of Ren's body his only gravity, his only stabilization.

In the mirror, Ren's expression cinches into tight desperation for the briefest instant before his head lolls back with a heave of his chest, a shuddering heave of breath interspersed with groans as he gives himself over to the climax and Hux feels his own body respond in turn, again and again until it seems as if Ren has somehow bled him dry through his own release.

Hands upon his hips, lifting him from the counter, turning his near limp form in the opposite direction. The ridiculous girth of Ren's arms around his shoulders. Ren's mouth upon his own. Tender. Gentle. Searching.

Hux shoves both hands into the thick mane of hair, fists handfuls of it for the briefest instant before allowing it to flow through his fingers, stroking it away from Ren's face.

So striking. Captivating. Hux cranes his neck for another kiss and Ren delivers, his hold fierce, almost possessive. Never in his thirty-three years had Brendol Hux allowed himself such a moment of yielding, even one as fleeting as this.

"Let us leave this place," Ren rumbles.

"You cannot pilot in this state," Hux says, annoyed with own irritatingly sensible response despite his condition.

"I will call for an aide." Hands grip Hux's hips, pulling him close. "And then, I will take you to bed with me, where I can have you properly."

 

* * *

 


End file.
